The Crush
by PearlQ19
Summary: [Crossover with WITHOUT A TRACE] A body is found that has been buried for six years. A few days later, a young woman disappears. These seemingly unconnected cases bring together the CSI team and the Missing Persons Dept. of the FBI... More info inside
1. Prologue: THE CRUSH

**The Crush**

_A/N: I couldn't decide which fandom to put this in, so I settled for a crossover: "Without A Trace" and "CSI: New York." However, there will only three characters per fandom appear in this story: Danny, Sam and Martin from "WaT" and Mac, Danny and Aiden from "CSI:NY". My apologies to Jack (who has, however, a sort of uncredited cameo), Viv, Stella, Hawkes and Flack. A little bit of 'shipping included (S/M and D/A). Sorry for the lack of creativity on my part as regards Tricia's profession (I'm an interpreter-to-be myself), but what do they say? "Write what you know."_

_As always, please tell me about any mistakes you spot and don't forget the review J _

_Classification: General fic with a tinge of romance/drama. Set during season one of CSI:NY (when Aiden is still there) and season three of WaT (after Sam and Martin broke up). I hope I don't interfere with canon in either show, but here in Germany we haven't yet got past these seasons mentioned. Rated PG for some language and sexual tension._

_Summary: A body is found that has been dead for six years. Five days later, a young woman disappears. These two seemingly unconnected cases bring together the CSI team and the FBI Missing Persons Department - and they realize that, once they've started digging, the cases might have more in common than they thought..._

_Disclaimer: I don't own either show. I'm borrowing the characters from their creators, Hank Steinberg (WaT) and Anthony Zuiker, Carol Mendelsohn and Ann Donahue (CSI:NY). Thanks for giving them to me for the duration of this story J No money is being made out of this._

_**xxx Now the story xxx**_

_Beautiful is empty_

_Beautiful is free_

_Beautiful loves no one_

_Beautiful stripped me_

- Creed, "Beautiful"

**PROLOGUE - The Crush**

_April 7, 1999 - July 30, 1999. Steinbeck High. NYC._

Patricia Quinlan hurried through the corridors of Steinbeck High in search of her Spanish course. Due to some unexpected room change, which she had not been informed about, she was lost. And Señor Hernández Pérez was pretty sensitive when it came to students arriving late for his classes.

"Crap," she muttered, speeding up a little. She was already out of breath, and if she didn't find the course soon, she'd huff and puff like a steam engine. For the umpteenth time, she cursed herself for doing so little for her fitness. But when you had fifteen pounds overweight, you were naturally reluctant to dress up in sporty attire and make an ass out of yourself by showing the whole world - or rather, the whole gym - in what bad shape you really were.

She slowed down again, allowing her breath to normalize, and finally spotted the right room. Thank goodness for the small windows in the doors. She knocked and entered.

_"Ah, Señorita Quinlan, que sorpresa." _Señor Hernández Pérez bowed mockingly before her. _"¿Por qué llegas tan tarde?"_

_Oh, wonderful,_ Tricia thought sarcastically. _Now he wants me to explain._ Thank goodness her Spanish was quite fluent.

_"Lo siento, señor," _she panted, infusing her voice with an apologetic tone while trying at the same time to talk as rapidly as she could - for she knew from experience that rapid Spanish that was grammatically correct was apt to impress any teacher. _"Nadie me dijo que habíamos cambiado la sala, y yo estuve enferma los tres días pasados..."_

_"Bien, bien, siéntate," _the teacher interrupted her, his stern expression softening a little. _"Acabamos de empezar. Página ochenta y dos."_

Tricia gratefully slid onto her chair beside Cordelia and opened her book at page eighty-two.

Halfway through the lesson, Cordelia nudged her. "Hey, Trish, turn around," she whispered. "I think Morris wants to ask you something."

Tricia's heart immediately sped up. Morris Greek, the most handsome boy in the whole year, if not the whole school - at least in Tricia's humble opinion - wanted to _ask _her something?

She turned around, carefully, lest the teacher notice, and looked directly into a pair of smoky-gray eyes. It was all she could do not to back away in surprise. Morris was leaning over his table toward her.

"Here, you could help me." It was not a question but a simple statement of fact, and Tricia wondered again why the hell she had such a violent crush on a boy whose arrogance seemed to radiate off him in waves.

But he was so damn handsome.

Scolding herself, Tricia started to explain Spanish indirect speech to Morris. She should know well enough that Spanish grammar was the only thing that would ever make someone like Morris - gray eyes, classic features and a lean, muscular body - talk to someone like her: a pretty but plump girl, neither hip nor cool, who was constantly being ignored by the Popular Ones. Nothing would ever change that. She was way out of his league.

She finished her explanation and Morris nodded curtly. "Hey, thanks." He did not smile at her; he did not even fully look at her. She knew he would forget her as soon as he turned around.

"Tri-ish!" Cordelia whispered urgently, nudging her hard. "You're staring again!"

Tricia quickly averted her eyes from Morris's handsome figure and focused on her friend.

"Did anyone notice?"

"Don't think so. He didn't, that's for sure." Cordelia cast her friend a sympathetic glance. "You should really forget him, Trish. He's not worth it."

"That's what you say," Trish said bitterly. "You have a boyfriend, and a really great one. But I..."

"You'll find the right one, too, believe me," Cordelia assured her. "But I'd rather it wasn't such an arrogant brat!"

Tricia smiled. Her friend always knew how to cheer her up again.

**xxx**

"Shall I give you a ride home?"

"No, I'll walk." Tricia refused Cordelia's offer. She had to do some shopping before she went home, and the next supermarket was right between the school and her home. It wasn't a long way; Tricia lived very close by.

Cordelia waved. "See ya tomorrow, gal. Stay rude."

"You too." Tricia waved back, then she turned around and left the parking lot. She was headed for a shortcut through the network of alleys and backstreets that separated Steinbeck High from the next main street when she suddenly heard a metallic click and a suppressed curse. Curious, she stopped, went back to the corner she'd just turned and peered around.

For a moment she did not know what to make of the picture presented to her: Morris Greek was standing beside a red convertible that looked very expensive, leaning over the door.

_What on earth did he lose in that car?_ Tricia thought, but then realization hit home, and she gasped. Morris's fingers fumbling with the ignition and the furtive looks he cast back over his shoulder every now and then only allowed one conclusion: he was about to steal the car!

Tricia stood rooted to the ground, unsure what to do. Should she turn on her heel, run and tell someone? Should she talk to him, talk him out of it? Or simply do nothing?

When Morris spotted her, she still hadn't made any decision.

His handsome face went pale for a moment, and before Tricia could react, he was running in her direction. She made as to turn on her heel, but he snatched her by the arm and held her back.

"Hi, Tricia," he said, and her heart started to race. He knew her name!

Apparently he mistook her racing pulse for fear, for he loosened his grip on her arm and smiled at her - the first real smile she had ever received from him. It made her knees go weak, and she made an enormous effort not to start staring and drooling. The hint of menace she'd thought she'd detected in his voice when he first spoke disappeared when he continued and gave way to something Tricia would have sworn was a charms offensive à la Morris Greek.

"Nice car, isn't it?" He pointed his head at the convertible. "That's a Corvette. Can you imagine the feeling to drive this baby at a speed reaching the three digits?"

"And that's what you were about to do, right?" Tricia replied. Her voice quavered a little but at least her knees felt solid again. "Who does this car belong to, if I may ask?"

Morris had the decency to blush slightly. "I could tell you now that it belongs to my uncle, who's in the fashion business," he said. "Or my second cousin, who is a model for DKNY. But I'm afraid you wouldn't believe either version."

"Quite right."

Morris was still looking at her. "Oh, come on," he implored. "Look, I only wanna borrow the car. For a joyride. I'll return it. I mean, I couldn't very well sell it, let alone keep it. My dad might get suspicious if I did." He smiled weakly. "So you see, I have no choice but to return it. And the guy who owns this car probably has three more cars to spare."

He was probably right. Tricia debated. She shouldn't give in. She had caught him red-handed in the attempt to steal a car that was worth more than both her parents together earned in a year.

On the other hand... how could she tell on Morris Greek and risk that he got into serious trouble?

Morris had been watching her carefully, it appeared, for as soon as doubt showed on her face, he immediately pounced on that.

"Don't tell anyone, please, Tricia," he pleaded. "I promise you, you won't regret it."

"I won't...?" Tricia looked at him, interested but skeptical. "What could you possibly do for me, Morris?"

She saw realization dawn on his face even before he spoke.

"Listen, I have an idea," he said urgently. "You're not very... I mean you're not someone who..." He paused, blushing. "You're not really popular, are you? No offense meant," he added hastily.

Tricia almost choked on her own breath. What the hell...?

"Maybe I could do something about it," Morris continued. "You know, boost your image a little bit. Say hello in the corridors, talk to you for a bit during lunch break, that sort of thing." He scrutinized her, frowning. "I could introduce you to the girls, but I must say I doubt that they'll find you, uhm, interesting enough to be one of them..."

"Who says I wanna be part of that bunch of stuck-up, stupid bitches?" Tricia retorted, upset. She knew who he was talking about: Alejandra Zapatero and her friends Macy, Kristen and Suzanne. The most popular girls at school; the notorious quartet of rich and beautiful girls that seemed to exist in every single high school in America. Tricia had long since stopped marveling at the fact that teen movies weren't completely wrong, after all, in depicting the social structures at a high school.

Morris raised his hands at Tricia's infuriated answer. "Sorry, didn't mean to offend you. So you don't _wanna _be popular, or what?"

"Not like this," Tricia explained. Then she grinned. "But I'll accept the other offer. It'll probably stop a few girls from picking on me when they see that I know you. Or at least seem to know you," she amended.

Morris heaved an audible sigh. "It's a deal, then?" he asked. "You don't tell on me, and I help you over the last few months here."

"Deal," Tricia agreed and reached for Morris's outstretched hand. He pulled back, though, and looked at her. "But this agreement does not extend beyond school," he warned her. "I won't pay your monthly rent or something like that."

"Geez, what are you taking me for?" Tricia couldn't help laughing, despite or because of the absurdity of the situation. "I have no intentions to blackmail you in ten years or so. I won't tell, and you'll help me a little bit, and that's all. When school is over, I'll just forget it."

"Thanks, Tricia." They shook hands.

Then Tricia turned on her heel and walked away, down the same way she had come. Behind her, she heard more clicking and cursing, and finally the powerful engine of the Corvette sprang to life.

She did not look back, still unsure whether she had made the right decision.

But her guilty conscience was overwhelmed by the joy she felt inside. Morris Greek might not find her attractive, but at least something between them would change. He would know her.

**xxx**

"Hi, Tricia."

"Morning, Morris." Tricia's stomach still flipped a little every time this conversation took place, but gradually, routine was setting in. Still she would almost burst with pride whenever she saw the incredulous expressions on various girls' faces who saw her greeting one of the most popular boys in this casual way - and him greeting back.

"Thanks for last week, by the way," Morris called after her. "You're my heroine, to be sure."

"Anytime," she called back, unable to suppress the wide grin that spread over her face. "Last week" referred to a three-hour session that had included herself and Morris, two pots of coffee and the Spanish grammar book. It had helped Morris through the last Spanish exam of the year and had probably improved his grade by one or even two notches. But for someone who did not know that, Morris's comment might have implied something entirely different. She could have kissed his feet for making the comment sound so suggestive, which he had probably done on purpose. Not exactly in order to help her as such, but Morris Greek was always apt to provoke.

She was still grinning when Cordelia fell into step beside her.

"Won't you finally tell me why you and Morris suddenly get along so well?" she asked.

Tricia smiled secretively. "Let's just say I helped him out in a slightly, uhm, tricky situation. And his way of saying thank you is not to ignore me any longer."

Cordelia stared at her. "You're actually happy about that, aren't you?" she asked with a frown.

Tricia blushed. "Well," she drawled, "happy is maybe a little bit exaggerated. But it's OK by me."

Cordelia shook her head. "You know, you don't have to do this, Trish," she said. "You could do much better than that. Morris Greek is so arrogant he doesn't even notice how arrogant he is. You did something for him which probably saved his ass, and his gratitude consists of _conversation_!"

Tricia sighed. "I knew you wouldn't understand," she said. "It's more than just that. The simple fact that he speaks to me in public..."

"... is the worst case of patronizing behavior I've ever encountered!" Cordelia finished heatedly. "Where is your self-esteem, lady? You're much more than that; you don't have to contend yourself with a condescending _Hello _every now and then."

Tricia fell silent, musing over Cordelia's words. Was her friend right? She probably was, but it did not change anything. All that counted was that her status in the high school hierarchy had indeed improved a little bit. She was still not within a shout of being really _popular _as such, but word had been spread that she was under Morris' protection. If anyone tried to mess with her, Morris would defend her, at least to a certain degree. They were not friends, of course, but Tricia sometimes wondered whether the difference between a loose friendship and the relationship between her and Morris was really so big.

Besides, their conversation clearly extended _beyond _a "condescending hello."

And this was more than she'd ever dreamed of.

But it also made it harder to forget him.

**xxx**

The last week of school had started, and Tricia had long since given up the hope that anyone would ask her out for the prom. But she wasn't the only single girl in the year; many would come alone and still have fun. She'd go with Cordelia and Ben, her boyfriend, with whom Tricia got along very well. Ben had already promised her an occasional dance, and she had the feeling that the prom wouldn't be too bad.

It would, of course, also be her penultimate possibility to see Morris. After the prom, the year would only gather together once more, namely when the diplomas were awarded. The feeling was both relieving and depressing.

She would remain in New York after school and attend a foreign languages' institute. She'd decided to brush up her Spanish and study translating and interpreting. She had no idea what Morris had planned; he'd hovered between law and journalism last she'd heard.

But she didn't want to know. Her crush on him still existed, but it had changed over the last few months. She knew where her place was, and knowing him better now, she was certain that they would not match, anyway. What she felt for him now was more like the distant kind of love that a fifteen-year-old girl might feel for her favorite popstar. She would have framed a picture of him, had she had one.

To Cordelia's great joy and relief, Tricia felt ready to let Morris Greek go.

But not until next week.

**xxx**

The gym was decorated with glitter, tinsel and paper garlands. Soft music was playing in the background; the live band would not perform until after the election of King and Queen. Tricia, Cordelia and Ben got a table in the middle of the room and settled down. Ben, always a gentleman, offered to get them their drinks, and the girls gratefully accepted.

They sat there for quite some time, watching the people arrive and say hello. Occasionally, someone greeted them or talked to them for a few minutes. Tricia felt relaxed. Tonight, all the quarrels and rivalries that existed among the students would be outshone by the unique feeling of freedom that everyone had. _School's out forever! _One phase of her life would be completed tonight.

When Morris and Alejandra, as expected, had been elected King and Queen, the ceremonial part of the evening was over and the band began to play: "School's Out," of course, and Tricia smiled. She leaned back in her chair and watched Ben and Cordelia dance, feeling only a very slight pang of longing. Tonight she almost believed that her Mr. Right wasn't far.

She looked away from her friends and watched Morris, her feelings oddly detached; for the first time in days, she had an inkling that this time she would be able to forget him. After tonight she'd get him out of her head, 'nuff said!

She followed his moves with her eyes, secretly, wondering again why he had attracted her so much. Usually Tricia didn't give much about a person's outer appearance; she'd always been more interested in character than looks. But with Morris, everything had been so different. His handsome face and figure were only part of the attraction; Morris Greek was a strong personality, a powerful physical presence. The problem was that he knew it, and Tricia doubted that he was actually mature enough to handle the impression he made on others, especially girls. He was charming and flirtatious but at the same time could be ruthless and unscrupulous. More than once, he'd shamelessly taken advantage of others, and while he was never really cruel, he often forgot to stop and think about what he was doing.

The band played another song, Joydrop's "Beautiful," and Tricia smiled to herself. She loved the song; it expressed almost literally what she sometimes thought. _If I was beautiful like you, all the things I would do... But I'm not beautiful like you... I'm beautiful like me!_

"Tricia?"

She jerked around only to find herself face to face with Morris. She had not even noticed that he'd no longer been in her sight.

"You having fun tonight?"

Tricia nodded. "I am... your Majesty." She made a mock bow in her chair.

Morris grinned.

Tricia looked at him, silent. She felt relaxed. Relieved. She could look at him without having her vision blur at the edges. Without blushing, without fearing every second to make a fool out of herself. All of a sudden, she no longer cared what Morris Greek thought of her.

_I'm over him,_ she realized, amazed.

She took a breath to speak when Morris surprised her by holding out a hand to her. "Let's dance," he said.

Tricia smiled, pleased but not exactly surprised. Somehow she'd known that this was coming. She rose from her chair, and without a word, they went to the dancefloor. They had hardly started dancing when the song was over, but the next one was similar in style and tempo, so they only changed their rhythm, adapting quickly to the new beat.

Tricia smiled again to herself. There was no better way to end both her time at school and her crush on Morris Greek.

She danced closer to him and pulled him by the collar, until his left ear was level with her mouth.

"Remember what I promised," she said. "I'll forget everything. You've paid your due. I don't suppose we'll stay in touch, right? So this is your way of saying goodbye and thank you..."

Morris stopped dancing and surprised her by looking straight into her eyes. "Goodbye and thank you," he repeated. "That's a good way of putting it. No irony meant." He put one arm around her, briefly, and gave her a jovial slap on the back before the moment could get awkward. "You saved my ass," he said. "And by the way, I _did _return that car."

"What car?" said Tricia and grinned.

He stared for a moment, then his face broke into a grin as well. "No idea what you're talking about," he agreed.

They danced in silence until the song was over, then Morris told her he needed something to drink.

Tricia returned to her table and to Ben and Cordelia, feeling elated and relieved as if a huge weight had been taken off her shoulders.

_I'm free, _she realized, smirking at the dramatic formulation. _It wasn't meant to be, and now I'm over it. And I couldn't have imagined a better closure than that._

Morris didn't come back and didn't ask her for any other dance that night.

**xxx**

Tricia saw him only once more, when one week later the high school diplomas were awarded. He acknowledged her with a brief nod and a half-smile, and she returned the gesture. There was no need for more. The strange connection that had linked them together somehow over the past few months was rapidly fading; Morris had already fallen back into his old habits and behavioral patterns.

But now that was OK by her.

She hardly ever thought of him during the next few years, and gradually, the past events of April 1999 began to fade from her mind until the sight of a red Corvette only evoked faint memories of a long lost feeling, the blurred image of a handsome, arrogant boy and the idea of an unusual agreement between two very different persons.

She kept her promise, just like the boy she'd once known had kept his.

She never told anyone.


	2. WASHED UP

**CHAPTER ONE - Washed Up**

_October 13, 2005. The woods outside NYC. 08:03 am._

Mac Taylor yawned, covering his mouth with one hand, while he carefully made his way down the muddy slope. It had been raining all through the past five days, and the ground was slippery and damp. He felt the drenched soil giving way under his feet, soaking his shoes, and had to set each step with care, lest he fall down and cover the remaining distance flat on his back. He could imagine much more dignified ways of arriving at a crime scene.

Aiden Burn and Danny Messer were already waiting for him. Mac couldn't help wondering how on earth they'd gotten here so fast. Probably Danny had given Aiden a ride; the detective was notorious for his fast driving.

"What have we here?" he asked when he'd safely arrived at the side of his colleagues.

"Rainy weather had something in store for us," Danny replied. "A hunter who passed this way saw something protruding from the ground, and when he took a closer look, this turned out to be a hand. He started to dig, and when he realized that it was an entire body that had been washed up by the rain, he called the cops."

Mac frowned. "Did he do much damage to the scene?"

Aiden wrinkled her nose. "Depends," she said. "There wasn't much left to damage, after all. The rain turned everything upside down, and moreover, I'd say this guy has been dead and buried for years. We'll have to identify him via his dental records."

Mac went into a crouch beside Danny and looked at the body for the first time.

Time, rain and soil had not been gentle to the man; in fact, all that Mac could safely determine was that the body indeed _was _that of a man. Decomposition had destroyed most of the tissue, and a few rags of indeterminable color and material were all that was left of his clothes. The reek was overwhelming, but Mac remained unfazed. After so many years spent in crime labs and autopsy rooms it took more than a corpse in an advanced stage of decomposition to unsettle him.

He slipped on rubber gloves and carefully examined the body, watching out for any recognizable indicators as to how the man had died. Clearly it hadn't been death from natural causes; the body would hardly have ended up buried in the woods outside New York City if that had been the case.

"He's broken a lot of bones," Aiden remarked.

Mac had already noticed that. Both calves, the left femural bone, pelvis and two ribs were practically shattered. Three teeth were missing, leaving dark gaps in the otherwise flawless set of teeth, and Mac was pretty sure that the spinal cord was damaged as well. The left ulna seemed injured in several places, too, and so did the wrist.

"Someone made sure this man would never stand up again," Mac said darkly.

"Do you think he's been beaten to death?" Danny asked.

Mac pondered for a moment. "Either that, or he was hit by a car."

"A hit-and-run?"

"Rather a hit-and-gotten-rid-of," Aiden said, her voice flat with anger. "We'll know more after the autopsy."

**xxx**

_04:13 pm._

"Our John Doe was indeed run over by a car," Mac reported to Aiden and Danny. "Hawkes found some red splinters clinging to the remains of his pants. And thanks to the combined forces of the GC/MS and the national database, we could identify the paint. It's a special type called _Velocity_, and it's used exclusively for Corvette and Chevrolet. The rest was easy. We could reconstruct the height and scope of the car's bumper from the broken bones, and the computer told us that the measures matched those of a Corvette built after '97."

"How long has he been in the ground?" Danny asked.

"That's impossible to determine now," Mac said. "But Hawkes estimates that it's been longer than three years."

"So he must have died some time between '97 and 2002," Aiden summed up. "Great. Let's just hope his dental records tell us who he is."

Mac remained silent, quite obviously lost in thought. Then he straightened, just as obviously having made a resolution.

"Don't take offense, you two," he said, "but I'd suggest you go check with the Missing Persons Department of the FBI. They have other means; they'll probably be faster than we. If the man was called in missing, all it will take them is a mouseclick. Get the X-rays of John Doe's teeth to the FBI. Ask for Jack Malone."

Danny and Aiden exchanged a look. "Don't you trust us anymore, Mac, or are you out of your brilliant mind?" Aiden asked bluntly. "You've never before consulted the FBI at such an early stage. At least not voluntarily."

Mac stubbornly set his jaw. "The faster we find out who he is, the better our chances to find out who did that," he said. "I wanna catch that bastard!"


	3. INVESTIGATION BEGINS

**CHAPTER TWO - Investigation Begins**

_October 14, 2005. CSI headquarters. NYC. 10:20 am._

Mac took a deep gulp of coffee, waiting for the stimulating effect of the caffeine to set in. He'd spent half of last night racking his brains for any possible way to narrow down the time frame for the death of their John Doe, should the FBI not come up with any valuable information. But Mac knew Jack Malone, who was heading the Missing Persons Department, and held the man in high esteem. Malone cared for the people he tried to find - not for the sake of success that might help him in his career but for the sake of the missing persons and their families alike. That was probably the secret of his success; Malone's department solved about ninety-five percent of their cases.

Therefore Mac still had not given up the hope that the FBI might dig out something useful.

His hopes were fulfilled ten minutes later, when his phone rang.

"Taylor," he answered.

"Dito," said a man's voice on the other end of the line. Laughter crackled through the phone wire, and Mac frowned.

"Excuse the joke, Detective," the man continued, now serious. "This is Agent Danny Taylor, Missing Persons Department. Your colleagues consulted us yesterday as to the identification of a John Doe."

"Yes?" Mac was suddenly wide awake. The prospect of progress was more stimulating than any amount of caffeine he could consume.

"It took us some time to find the right person," Agent Taylor explained. "See, we got a new computer system a little while ago, and the older data have not yet completely been transferred. But now we finally found a match. Dental records, as you reckoned. You got something to write?"

"Fire away." Mac already had his pen ready.

"The dental records match those of one Garrett Chase," Agent Taylor dictated. "Salesman, forty-seven years old at the time of disappearance. His wife called him in missing when he didn't return from a nightly walk. The case has never been solved."

"When was that?" asked Mac.

"Been quite a while," Agent Taylor informed him. "He was last seen on April 8, 1999."

Mac nodded, only belatedly realizing that Agent Taylor could not very well see him. "That matches our time frame perfectly."

"Yeah, your detectives said we didn't have to go back further than '97," Agent Taylor agreed. "Still it took very long, sorry for that."

"No problem," Mac assured him. "Thanks for your help, Agent Taylor. My regards to Jack."

"I'll tell him," Agent Taylor promised. "Good luck, Detective Namesake." He hung up while Mac was still smiling.

**xxx**

_12:56 pm._

"God, how I hate this!" Aiden sighed and slid onto the passenger's seat of Danny's car.

Uncharacteristically quiet, Danny circled around the car and crawled onto his own seat. He put the key in the ignition but did not turn it yet.

"You know what, Aiden? I hate it, too." His own sigh matched hers. "But I guess that's just the flipside of being a cop."

"I think, however, that it was also a relief of some sort for Mrs. Chase," Aiden mused. "I mean, for six years she's had no idea whether her husband was cold and dead or alive and kickin', screwing some chick down in Vegas. Now at least she knows that he didn't leave her. He was taken from her."

"Do you think that's a relief?" Danny asked. "Knowing that some asshole ran over her husband and not only left him for dead but _got rid of him_?"

"She can bury him now," Aiden said. "Finally she knows for sure where he is now. Of course it's horrible that someone did this to him, but I still think that there's some relief in it." She turned and looked at him, a sad half-smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "I'd certainly prefer certainty over doubt, even if it means losing someone for good."

"So you'd rather see me in a grave than in Vegas screwing some chick?" Danny teased, his usual gallows humor returning to him.

Aiden grinned. "Well, you're a special case. It's certainly easier to imagine you the other way round..."

"You think I'd go to Vegas engaging in sexual activity with a showgirl rather than stay with you till the day I die?" Danny pouted. "Very shocked I am. Influenced by abysmal human nature Detective Burn's mind has been."

"Detective Burn will be influenced by the abysmal urge to kick Master Yoda's not completely unattractive ass if you don't start that car, Danny," Aiden countered. "I wanna get back. Don't you?"

Danny blew her a kiss. "At your beck and call."

He turned the key and revved the engine a few times. "Arrr," he growled, echoing the sound this produced, winking at his friend and colleague in the passenger's seat.

Aiden pursed her lips, vainly trying to suppress the laughter that bubbled up inside her. In the end, she turned her face to the window and allowed herself a wide grin.

With Danny, everything was a little bit easier to bear. Even delivering a message as sad as this one.

**xxx**

_01:44 pm._

When Danny and Aiden returned to the CSI headquarters, Mac was already waiting for them. He waved a few computer printouts.

"Stella was so kind as to check the archives for all red Corvettes that were stolen in the week of April 8, 1999." He gave Danny and Aiden each a copy.

Danny quickly scanned the printout for any figures. "Seven?" He whistled. "Geez, I didn't even know that some people still actally _own _Corvettes, let alone have them stolen from them. I thought the times of these cars were over."

"Well, seems as if you were wrong." Aiden looked through the list. "So two were found again a little while later, one was recovered by the police when someone tried to sell it, one was involved in an accident in Jersey and was completely ruined, and three never turned up again." She smirked. "So where do we start?"

"That accident in Jersey was in the afternoon of April 8," Mac pointed out. "Garrett Chase was called in missing about six hours later."

"Oh, great, so we can exclude that car." Danny crossed out the entry on his list. "Another hint, Mac?"

"What would you do when you kill someone with a stolen car?" Mac asked back.

"Get rid of the car as fast as possible," said Aiden.

"You think we should look first at the two cars that were found again?" Danny asked.

"That depends on the cold-bloodedness of the thief," Aiden pointed out. "Maybe he just got out of the car and left it behind. But he might as well have tried to sell it. Or he sold parts of it to street gangs and illegal car dealers. That would explain why the car never turned up again."

"Let's try those first that _did _turn up again," Danny decided. "Then we can take samples right away and examine the cars."

"Good plan." Aiden turned to Mac. "Are you coming with us?"

Mac shook his head. "I've got loads of paperwork to do. But keep me posted on everything."

"Of course, boss."

Aiden and Danny left the room, and Mac looked after them for a moment. He had once been warned to employ Danny Messer, whose reputation as a stubborn, obnoxious and complicated person preceded him. But although Mac and Danny sometimes had their differences, Mac had never regretted his choice.

With a slight tinge of amusement, he congratulated himself for his wonderful team.

**xxx**

_05:08 pm._

"Thank you, Mrs. Marshall," Danny said. "Please excuse our intrusion, but I'm sure you understand the importance of the matter..."

Aiden, hidden behind his back, uttered a strange noise which she quickly disguised as a coughing fit. He, however, looked unflinching at the tall woman before him. Her round blue eyes opened a little wider, her painted lips parted slightly, and she ran a hand carefully over her blow-dried peroxide hair.

"Of course, officer," she crooned. "I am _always _happy to help the police. I'll tell my husband to make a donation next time you have one of your tombolas. But I hope that this don_ation_ won't be spent on don_uts_." She giggled like a little child that had just told her favorite joke.

Danny curled his lips in the polite imitation of a smile.

"Well, I'll make sure that this won't happen," he assured her. "And now we really have to go. Thanks for your generosity, Mrs. Marshall."

"Oh, why don't you call me Gloria..."

"Goodbye," Aiden interrupted firmly and cast the blonde a blazing look. "Take care that your car doesn't get stolen again."

She all but pulled Danny down to the car.

"Geez, what a woman!" Danny commented as soon as they were on the way to the next Corvette driver.

Aiden made a growling noise in the back of her throat. "I really hope you mean this in a pejorative sense rather than an admiring one," she remarked darkly.

"A little bit of both, probably," Danny replied. "I don't think I've ever met a woman who was more stupid than this one. But she managed to marry a millionaire, so she must be at least a little clever."

Aiden heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Danny Messer, what planet did you say you're from? Let me go there; it must be Utopia if men actually still believe that intelligence or cleverness is attractive." She patted his arm in a mockingly consoling gesture. "Poor baby... Nevermind, Danny. But let me assure you one thing: Cyrus Marshall certainly didn't marry big-breasted Gloria for her intellectual qualities."

Danny laughed. "I was joking, Aiden," he said. "No need to get jealous. You know you're my number one."

Aiden couldn't think of an appropriate reply, but she smiled. That was Danny - stubborn as a mule, insubordinate and easily enraged, but also charming and easy-going, with his sometimes slightly macabre sense of humor and casual manner. God, she didn't even want to imagine how work without Danny would be, without their constant flirtation and affectionate teasing.

"So our car was neither Gloria Marshall's nor Hank Crenshaw's," Danny was saying, bringing Aiden back to the present. "Who's next?"

Aiden looked through the list. "Roy Malcolm," she said. "Film producer." She looked at her watch. "We have fifteen minutes to get to the Upper West Side. His secretary said we should come before five-thirty."

"Well, then I suggest we hurry up." Danny slammed the accelerator down to the floor and the car sped up.

Thirteen minutes and a few red traffic lights later, they pulled over in front of a large town house near Central Park.

It took them another valuable two minutes to convince the housekeeper, who opened the door, that they were indeed detectives, not journalists, and that Roy Malcolm was informed about their visit. But finally the lady was satisfied and led them through a labyrinth of corridors until she stopped before one of the doors and knocked.

"Mr. Malcolm? The police are here..."

"OK."

The housekeeper cast a last distrustful glance at Aiden and Danny, then she opened the door for them and let them pass into Roy Malcolm's private office room.

"Wow," said Aiden involuntarily.

The walls were completely covered by shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. Only one wall was shelfless, but that was because it was not a wall but one large window. Malcolm's desk, covered in computer printouts, folders, a half-eaten turkey sandwich and two notebooks, stood facing the window, so that Malcolm could look out over Central Park whenever he lifted his eyes from his work.

The shelves were crammed with a curious concoction of books, more folders, DVDs, bottles and all sorts of electronic devices, old and new. Music was playing, Metallica's "For Whom The Bell Tolls," and in one corner, CNN was on, but mute.

Roy Malcolm looked not at all the way Aiden had imagined him. Instead of the slick yuppie she had expected, he turned out to look more like a hippie who had ended up in the wrong decade. His long hair was flaming red and looked disheveled, but not neglected. He wore blue jeans with a hole above the right knee that was so large that Aiden suspected he had torn it on purpose. His leather belt had a silver buckle in the shape of a snake winding around a stick, and his scarlet shirt was half open and revealed a thin, light-skinned chest covered with tiny liver spots. Freckles spread over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He didn't look a day older than twenty-six, perhaps.

"Detectives Messer and Burn?" He looked from Aiden to Danny.

"Burn and Messer," Aiden corrected, pointing her finger first at herself and then at Danny. "Roy Malcolm?"

"Aye." Malcolm noticed her astonished expression and grinned, which made him look like a schoolboy. "Scottish ancestry," he explained.

"Hence the hair," Danny remarked.

"Aye, and the accent." Roy Malcolm looked around, discovered a chair buried under a pile of paper and made as to remove the stack from its place. Aiden, who saw the skepticism in Malcolm's face, quickly stopped him.

"We don't need to sit down," she assured him. "We won't be long."

"Verra good," Malcolm said. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes. I s'pose someone told ye that, aye?

"Aye," said Danny involuntarily, causing both Malcolm and Aiden to burst out laughing. He blushed slightly. "I mean, yes," he corrected belatedly. "As my partner said, we won't be long. We have a few questions concerning the theft of your car six years ago."

Malcolm looked incredulously from one to the other. "What, ye must be kidding! What car theft?"

Aiden and Danny exchanged a confused glance. "Didn't you report a red Corvette stolen on April 7, 1999?" Danny asked after consulting his list.

Realization dawned on Malcolm's face like the sun over Hawaii.

"Oh, _that_," he said. "Why could that possibly be of interest now? The car turned up again two days later."

"That's true," Danny said. "But the thing is, it's possible that a man was run over and killed by the thief during these two days."

Malcolm's bony face fell slack with surprise. "Oh," was all he said.

"Do you still have the car, Mr. Malcolm?" Aiden asked.

"Call me Roy," he said, making an effort to pull himself together. "Mr. Malcolm sounds so official."

"Well, this _is _an official investigation," Aiden pointed out. "It's what we call a cold case. New informations makes it necessary for us to take up investigation where we let off six years ago."

"Cold case, eh?" Roy Malcolm had obviously recovered his good humor. "Always makes a good movie. Though thrillers and crime stories are not my area of expertise."

"You didn't answer my question," Aiden said. "Is the car in question still in your possession?"

"Technically, it is," the producer confirmed. "I havena used it meself for years, though. My da thought it was a good idea to buy me a Corvette for my twenty-first birthday, ken, but I never really liked the car. Too pompous for my taste."

Aiden secretly agreed. A Mini Cooper would suit the scrawny redhead much better.

"My da died in 2000," Roy continued, "and after that, I no longer felt the moral obligation, so to speak, to cruise around in the Corvette. So I started to lend it out to someone else every now and then - a friend who wanted to impress his crush, or my wee brother for his first big cruise down the East Coast. It's been in one of my movies, too."

"But you still have it," Danny stated. "Where do you keep it?"

Roy shrugged. "Right here. In the garage."

"We'd like to have a look," Aiden said. "If we're allowed to take samples from the paint, we can determine whether it was your car that was involved in the accident back then or not."

"Sure ye can take samples. The car's past its prime, anyway." Roy grinned. "One scratch more or less really wouldna make any difference."

"Was the car in good condition when it turned up?" Aiden asked while Roy was leading them out of the office and through the corridors.

"Well, depends," Roy said. "Almost out of gas, broken windshield, and a wee bit damaged round the front. But it was still usable, nothing was amiss, and even the stuff from the gloves compartment was still there."

Danny and Aiden exchanged a glance. Broken windshield? Damaged round the front?

"Broken windshield?" Danny asked. "Do you remember what exactly it looked like?"

"The windshield?" Roy cast the detective a confused glance. "Broken, as I said. Looked as if someone had used a basball bat on it."

Roy opened a back door and led the detectives to another building right next to the town house. He pushed a button on a remote control he'd carried in his pocket and the gate opened, revealing a dark green Chrysler Grand Cherokee, the red Corvette - and, to Aiden's amusement, a yellow Mini Cooper, just as she'd thought might match him. One door of each car was adorned with the logo of Roy Malcolm's production company, Roy Ruaidh Productions - the sketch of a boy's face in black and white, but with a shock of flaming red hair. It reminded Aiden a little bit of _Sin City_, Frank Miller's graphic novels, which were mainly in black and white but with strategically placed spots of color every now and then.

"_Ruaidh _is the Gaelic word for 'red'," Roy explained without being asked. "My da founded the company and named it after me. I had red hair even when I was but a wee bairn, ken?"

"I see," Danny murmured, his eyes already on the Corvette. He made the necessary measurements and compared the results with his list. They matched. Then he took samples from the paint and the bumper.

"How often has the car been washed since it was stolen?" Aiden asked.

Roy stared at her. "Ye dinna expect me to remember how often in six years this car has been washed, do ye?" he asked incredulously. "But I daresay often enough to remove any traces of whatever ye're looking for," he added apologetically. "When we made the movie, it's been washed between takes, maybe two or three times a day."

Aiden sighed. "Nevermind, Roy," she said. "I didn't really expect anything else. Why should we be lucky, after all?"

"Hey, Burn, cut the depressions," Danny said sternly, looking up from his evidence bags. "Never say die."

"I think we can do without the phenolphtaleine," Aiden remarked when she saw Danny prepare the bottle.

"But it won't do any damage," Danny replied. "And maybe it'll work a miracle."

Of course it didn't. The car simply had been washed too many times; there was not the slightest trace of blood detectable - provided that this really _was _the car they were looking for.

Danny had quickly scanned in the sample and sent it out to the lab, waiting for the results to come back.

"Uhm, detectives..." Roy Malcolm said, a little uncomfortably. "I gotta get going in five minutes. How long are ye gonna take?"

"Depends," Danny said curtly.

"A few more minutes." Aiden felt sorry for the producer, who seemed like an eager little boy to her - despite the fact that he wasn't much younger than herself. "Our technicians in the lab are checking the digitalized sample Danny just sent out and compare it with the sample collected from the victim. If they match, we know that the man was run over by your car here."

"And if that's the case?" Roy seemed younger still, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "What kinda consequences..." He trailed off.

"Well, if I were you, I'd try to remember where I was on April 8, 1999 between, say, 8 pm and midnight," Aiden recommended. "But I wouldn't worry too much, that's just routine. You reported the car as stolen, and the accident happened well after that. Unless we suppose that you knew Mr. Chase and took great efforts to construct a murder plan including the scapegoat - the thief - you're on the safe side."

Roy relaxed visibly. "Maybe my next movie should be a crime story," he remarked. "I'd just consult ye when I do my research."

"Does that mean our names would be in the credits?" Danny joked.

"Aye, of course."

Danny did not reply, for his cell phone started to ring.

"Messer." He listened for a while. Then he nodded. "Aye... errr, I mean, alright. Yes. Thanks."

He flipped the phone shut and turned to Aiden and Roy.

"The tests have proven that Garrett Chase was run over by this very car. Mr. Malcolm, we have to take the Corvette with us."


	4. UNCOMFORTABLE

**CHAPTER THREE - Uncomfortable**

_October 15, 2005. Brooklyn Bridge, NYC. 11:43 am._

If only he had not taken that last tequila yesterday.

Morris Greek's head was pounding painfully. His mouth was dry and felt as if it was stuffed with wool. He reached for the bottle of water on the passenger's seat beside him, opened it one-handed and set it to his lips. He drank in long, thirsty gulps, and if he hadn't been driving, he would have closed his eyes from the sheer pleasure of it.

On the other hand, why not close his eyes? The traffic was stalling, as usual, before the toll station at Brooklyn Bridge. He would spend at least another fifteen minutes here before he could get on the bridge.

He looked in the rearview mirror, checking whether his handsome face bore any visible traces of his excessive drinking yesterday. But apart from the shadows under his eyes, nothing betrayed last night's activities.

Giorgia wouldn't ask, anyway. She never did.

For the umpteenth time, Morris wondered why they stayed together at all. They shared an apartment, true, but they hardly ever saw each other. Due to their respective jobs - she was a model, he a journalist - they could never plan when to be home and when not. Giorgia, who currently had a contract with DKNY, had to attend photo shootings at the strangest times of day or night, and Morris could never predict when he had to get in his car and go chase the story that would earn him the Pulitzer.

When they did indeed see each other, all they did was have sex. That was all their relationship depended upon lately. They hardly ever talked, or watched a movie, or even had breakfast together - well, or coffee, for that matter; neither of them ate much in the morning.

Sometimes Morris really wondered why they did not break up. Habit, he supposed. And besides, feelings had never mattered much to Morris Greek. Who cared if he did not love Giorgia? She had a luxurious body, which she shared with him whenever he wanted. She did not ask more from him than she was prepared to give in turn. Morris doubted that Giorgia loved him. He doubted that Giorgia could love anyone else but herself.

Not that he was any better. The most important person in Morris Greek's life was, and would always be, Morris Greek.

The main reason why they had not broken up yet was probably the fact that they looked so good together. Strange as this sounded, it was true. Giorgia Carentini' beauty was legendary on the catwalk, and Morris was frequently mistaken for a CK model himself. They were the epitome of the beautiful people, and when they turned up together at a show or party, everyone turned and stared. So each of them could show off with the respective other, and since they were both so much in love with themselves, both of them profited from that fact. In a way, it was lucky that they were so similar in that respect. No one was hurt because they knew exactly where they were at.

Morris shook his head, secretly wondering why he was thinking such thoughts. Philosophical analyses before noon were not something he was used to. Why think about feelings, anyway? Feelings were the enemy, contrary to everything that was important to Morris.

Yawning, he reached again for the bottle of water. After a few more gulps, he idly played around on the radio, changing the frequencies as the traffic moved slowly on.

_You wanna hear about my new obsession... I'm riding high upon a deep depression... _He liked Garbage, but not now. _I think I did it again... I made you believe we're more than just friends... _Morris grimaced. Britney? Eeew! _Smoke on the water... a fire in the sky... _K-Rock, probably. Better, but not perfect. He kept changing radio stations. "_Germany still struggling with the new government coalition..." _Foreign news. Despite his profession, Morris was generally uninterested in any news that extended beyond the U.S. What did he care about the German government? Germany didn't go to war. He reached again for the button when he looked up and saw that the traffic had stalled again. Swearing, he slammed the brakes down lest he hit the car in front of him. His car stopped abruptly, and his finger slid off the button. Accidentally he hit another button, and now the only sound coming from the radio was static noise.

_Crap! _He tried to readjust the button, turning it in both directions. Fragments of conversation zoomed in and out, and Morris frowned. He took a closer look at the button he'd accidentally hit, and slowly, a wide grin spread over his face.

How could he forget?

A few months ago, he had been assigned to a story about corruption and bribery within the police. In order to collect information, he had asked one of his informants, a brilliant technician who provided services for both sides of legality, to get him a device with which he could listen to the police radio network. Once that device had been built in, Morris had been able to hear conversation that was never meant to be made public. His story had been a big success.

Now he'd activated that device again. Carefully he tried to adjust the frequency, led by the fragments of conversation he caught every now and then.

_"Ten-four. I'm on my way."_

_"Roger, 7135. Ten-forty."_

More white noise.

_"Jerry, your mom called a few minutes ago. Sounded like she wanted to remind you of something..."_

_"Oh, Jesus Christ on a piece of toast! I promised her to..."_

Morris never learned what exactly this Jerry guy had promised his mom, for it was his turn to pay the bridge toll. He turned down the volume so that no one would notice what he was doing. Only when he was on the bridge did he turn his attention back to the radio. The frequency had stabilized; no more white noise interrupted the mixture of private and professional conversation that was sent out into the blue.

Morris kept listening, always looking for a scrap if information that might be useful. But New York seemed to have a good day. Most of the conversation was completely trivial. His thoughts began to drift until something caught his attention.

_"...CSI unit found the car with which Mr. Garrett Chase was killed in '99," _the operator informed the squad cars. _"A red Corvette, license plate ROY101. Stolen on April 7, 1999, turned up again two days later. Investigation suggests that Mr. Chase was killed by the thief. We don't know yet whether this was intentional or an accident. We have order to reinvestigate the theft. Any officer must cooperate with the CSI detectives, if asked. Copy that."_

_"Roger, operator."_

_"Ten-four, operator."_

_"Copy..."_

Morris turned the radio off. His hands were shaking. God, he needed a cigarette! He rummaged through his pockets and found a battered package with two Marlboro Light left in it. He fumbled for one, pressed the cigarette lighter and impatiently waited for it to heat up. When his cigarette was lighted, he smoked in hasty, deep puffs.

Suddenly everything fell into place. Of course he'd heard about the body that had been discovered two days ago, but the name Garrett Chase had meant nothing to him. And no one had said exactly _where _the man had been found. But now...

Suddenly Morris Greek was seventeen again. He remembered the kick of high speed when he slammed down the accelerator of the car he'd "borrowed." Convertibles, all cars had to be convertibles. Otherwise, the joyride would only be half the fun. And when it rained, well, then the owner might have to remove the leather seats and have them cleared, repaired or replaced.

There had been three of them: himself, John and Brad. It had been a sort of competition: who managed to steal most cars without being caught? There were only three rules: no one was to tell on the others, the cars had to be returned, and the competition had to stop when the first of them turned eighteen. Until then, they were minors and thus subject to different laws, should they be caught. And since they always returned the cars, the punishment might not be too hard.

Sometimes it had been a close call. But somehow they had always avoided being caught, and all three of them had adhered to the rules. Brad, the oldest of them, had turned eighteen in June, and neither he nor John - at least to his knowledge - had stolen any car after that.

But the problem was that there was something he had never told the others. He'd stolen this Corvette and kept it for two days, as usual. And as usual, he'd cruised around just outside of the city area on the second evening. The day had been foggy and rainy although it was summer, and the streets were slippery.

Morris closed his eyes, shivering at the memory that suddenly poured over him. The street, the woods, the street shimmering slick with rain... His foot on the accelerator, the wind blowing through him... And then the shape of a man walking by the side of the road. He pressed his foot further down on the accelerator and shifted in a lower gear so he could speed up better. The engine roared in protest; the man looked around; Morris reached again for the gear shift and honked the horn with the other hand... and then everything was just a blur of screaming tires, crashing glass and chaos...

Morris shook off the memory. Had that been on April 8? Was the nameless man he'd run over and buried Mr. Garrett Chase? _It was an accident! _his mind screamed. _What could I possibly have done? I was almost done with high school; I'd have ruined my future if I'd told anyone!_

What did it matter now? This was six years in the past. Time surely had taken care of all evidence he might have left. Until now, no one seemed to have suspected that there ever had been an accident at all. He'd battered the windshield with a baseball bat in order to conceal the traces of the man's body hitting it. Circumstancial evidence concealed by an act of vandalism. It seemed to have worked.

But now they'd found the body, and suddenly the past caught up with him. Morris felt very uncomfortable. Of course, he was safe - nothing connected him to that theft; no one had ever seen him. No one but Brad and John even knew about this special aspect of his youth.

_No one knew. _Something seemed wrong about that. Morris racked his brains.

Suddenly another memory surfaced before his eyes: a girl with dark, almost black hair and dark blue eyes in which warmth, humor and melancholy were reflected. She was quite pretty, with clear features and soft skin, but her shoulders were slightly slumped and made her look shy, uncertain and introverted. This effect was amplified by the fact that she had a few pounds too much. She was not obese, not even exactly fat, but well above the current ideal weight for a girl of her height.

Morris frowned. Patricia Quinlan, he remembered. She'd been in his high school year, and he'd always suspected that she was in love with him. Like most girls in the year. They'd gotten along, but he hadn't thought of Tricia Quinlan in ages. Why now?

His brain gave him the answer a moment later, and Morris gasped. God, Tricia had seen him steal one of the cars! She knew!

And if that wasn't bad enough, Morris now remembered that Tricia had caught him in April, stealing the red Corvette.

And the police were looking for the thief of this very car.


	5. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF AN INTERPRETER

**CHAPTER FOUR - The Disappearance of an Interpreter**

_October 18, 2005. Selene Foundation. NYC. 09:00 am._

Kathryn Young walked down the corridor to her office. Her high heels clicked rapidly on the floor; she was almost running. Another glance at her watch told her that it was indeed nine o'clock in the morning. Good heavens, the first Mexicans from the delegation would turn up any minute, and her interpreter still had not arrived.

_Calm down, _she told herself. _Tricia never let you down before. She knows there's this meeting today, she knows you don't speak Spanish, and she knows how important the meeting is. She'll be here any moment. Probably she just got stuck in the morning traffic._

Kathryn Young was the manager of the Selene Foundation, a private art forum she'd taken over from her father. Over the years, she'd always known how to attract donors and partners, and most of them came from South America. The delegation today came from Mexico. They were due for nine fifteen, which meant they'd probably turn up at nine thirty, but still Kathryn was nervous. What if they'd be punctual today? Without Tricia, she would be lost.

Kathryn had met Patricia Quinlan half a year ago for the first time. At that time, Tricia had just taken her final exam and left the language institute as an interpreter for Spanish and German. She was new to the professional world, and the job at the Selene Foundation was one of her very first. She'd been nervous, and Kathryn had felt a little sorry for her. But then she'd heard her interpret, and everything changed. Tricia Quinlan was one of those persons whose quality only showed once they were doing something they felt completely comfortable with. For Tricia, this something was interpreting. Suddenly this young woman seemed twice as confident and professional as before. Her voice dropped down several notes, she articulated differently, and her whole being seemed to relax, exuding calm and professionality. The clients, including Kathryn, trusted her completely as soon as she started speaking.

Kathryn had never consulted another interpreter since then, unless of course another language than Spanish or German was required. Tricia also knew some French, but she refused to work with it, since she had not studied it properly.

But she was not only Kathryn's favorite interpreter in all three main disciplines - simultaneous, consecutive and liaison - Tricia Quinlan had also become a friend, and therefore Kathryn was all the more unsettled. Surely she'd have called if something was wrong? Tricia would never ever let her down.

Kathryn picked up the phone and dialed Tricia's number. But she was not at home; her answering machine took the call, but Kathryn did not leave a message. She was a little calmer now. Tricia was apparently on her way here.

But her cell phone was out. That was unusual; Tricia took great care that the battery was always loaded, and the only time her cell phone was out was when she was on a job. Kathryn left a message on the mailbox, urgently imploring Tricia to call her.

"Ms. Young, the Mexicans have arrived."

Kathryn spun around, causing the young man to wince. "Do you speak Spanish, Greg?" she asked.

Greg stared at her. "Just a little. Why?"

"The interpreter's late. Someone must explain it to them."

"Oi." Greg ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, I can try. Shall I offer them something to drink?"

"Anything that takes their mind off the meeting," Kathryn said. "Just don't let them get bored."

Greg grinned. "They'll be hugely entertained when they hear me talk Spanish," he promised.

Kathryn smiled. "Make a fool of yourself if you must, just don't let their mood get worse. I'll reward you somehow, promise!"

Greg retreated and met the Mexicans halfway down the corridor.

_"Buenos dias y bienvenido," _Kathryn heard him say. _"Yo soy Greg Forster." _That didn't sound too bad, she thought. Only the accent was horrible.

She relaxed a little bit, waiting for the phone to ring or for Tricia to appear. Every now and then, she spied on Greg and the Mexicans. He had managed to offer them coffee and donuts and they were happily munching away while Greg tried to explain the core problem to them.

_"No está aquí nuestra... nuestra... _uhm..." He was quite obviously lacking the vocabulary. _"Transladora," _he finally ventured, taking a wild guess by simply "Spanifying" the English.

The Mexicans looked confused, then one of them burst out laughing. _"La traductora," _he explained to his colleagues.

_"Sí, claro," _Greg said hurriedly. _"Quizás ella está en el tráfico..."_

Kathryn retreated into her office. Greg might be entertaining, but the Mexicans were bound to become impatient soon. She had to do something.

She called a translator's office and asked for someone to interpret at her meeting, apologizing several times for the inconvenience she caused. Luckily, one of the Spanish translators had time and promised to come over.

Kathryn assured him that he did not need any special preparation in terms of unusual or specialized vocabulary, thanked him a thousand times, hung up and picked up the phone once again. This time, she called Tricia's neighbor to ask whether she knew where Tricia might be. Having received a negative answer, Kathryn bit her nails and thought long and hard about the situation.

It was nine twenty-five, and Tricia had said she'd be here at eight-thirty. She didn't answer her cell phone, which she usually always did, and she would never turn down a job like this.

Convinced that something was terribly wrong here, Kathryn Young dialed the number of the police and called her in missing.

**xxx**

_12:00 pm. 3 hours missing._

"This is all an interpreter can afford?" Danny Taylor wondered. "I thought they raked in money like crazy."

"That's because for you it's completely unimaginable to do what they do," Samantha Spade countered, smiling. "Listen, understand, translate and talk - all at once. You think that that's so hard that payment must be extraordinary."

"You said that!" Danny grinned. "But you're right," he conceded. "I'd be completely lost, that's for sure."

"I think all you need is a good memory and the ability to concentrate," Sam mused.

"And sufficient vocabulary in at least two languages," Danny added.

"Whatever, I doubt that any interpreter makes a six-digit salary a year," Sam concluded. "Unless they work for the White House of the Sultan of Brunei, perhaps."

"Judging from this house, Patricia Quinlan certainly doesn't work for George W.," Danny remarked.

"Oh, come on, Danny, it's not so bad."

"Not bad, but it's not the pick of the crop, either."

"It's no worse than my own apartment house," Sam pointed out.

"I wouldn't know," Danny said. "I'm not Martin; I've never been to your place."

Sam blushed. Sometimes she forgot that Danny had known about her and Martin. She thought it rather tactless of him to mention it now that it was over, but she knew he hadn't meant any offense. How could he know, after all, that she was still hurt? Although she had tried not to make it more than an affair, she realized more and more that her feelings for Martin ran deeper than she would have liked them to. It had been a heavy blow when Martin had broken up with her, but some corner of her mind could understand him. Somehow, at least. He had hoped for more, and she had refused to give it to him, although she could have.

_You messed it up, Sam. As usual._

She forced the memory back. She had work to do.

The agents entered the house and took the elevator to the third floor, where they knocked on the door of # 311, the door next to Patricia Quinlan's.

A blonde woman in her forties opened the door. She had a round, friendly face and large brown eyes and reminded Sam immediately of an English cook in a manor - tough but friendly, maternal and any child's partner in crime, so to speak. It did not surprise her when she remembered that Nadine Sciorra worked as a nanny.

"Ms. Sciorra?"

"Yes. And you are...?"

"FBI. I'm Agent Spade, this is Agent Taylor. May we come in?" Sam flipped open her ID as she spoke.

"Oh, of course." Nadine Sciorra stepped aside and let the agents in.

Sam looked around in the room. It was furnished in warm, bright colors; everything looked cozy and inviting. If her apartment reflected her personality, Sam mused, then it must be very pleasant to live next to Nadine Sciorra.

"I suppose you're here because of my neighbor." It was not exactly a question, and Ms. Sciorra did not seem to expect an answer.

"Patricia Quinlan," Danny confirmed. "You already know she's been called in missing?"

Ms. Sciorra nodded. "Kathryn Young called me when she didn't turn up at work this morning," she explained. "She was worried. I understand it was Kathryn who called you?"

"That's right." Sam sat down on the slightly battered but cozy sofa and declined a cup of coffee that was offered to her.

"I don't understand it," Ms. Sciorra said, thoughtfully shaking her head. "Something must have happened to Tricia."

"That's the second time that we hear this," Sam said. "Ms. Young told us the same. So Patricia Quinlan is normally very reliable?"

"Oh yes," Ms. Sciorra confirmed positively. "Tricia always calls when she's about to be late, even if it's only ten minutes. She once told me that it's a professional disease, so to speak. As an interpreter, it can cost you your job when you're late. Especially as a freelancer. And she's a very conscientious worker."

"What kind of person is Patricia Quinlan?" Danny wanted to know.

Ms. Sciorra smiled. "She's a treasure, to be sure," she said warmly. "Always friendly and ready to help. Comfortable to live next to. She never turns up the volume of the TV too high or something like that."

"You said she calls whenever she's late," Sam said. "That sounds as if you sometimes meet out of the house..."

"Yes, sometimes," Ms. Sciorra replied. "Tricia likes children, so she sometimes joins me for a coffee when I'm out in Central Park with the kids."

"Would you say you're friends?"

Ms. Sciorra hesitated. "We-ll," she drawled, "maybe not friends as such. I mean, we don't exchange secrets or something of that sort. But we get along very well, and we like and respect each other. Good neighbors, you know."

"I see. But you're not her confidant?"

"I wouldn't say. Why are you asking?"

"When someone disappears, there are numerous possibilities," Danny explained. "The person could've had an accident. Or escaped from something. Or just wanted a break. Or there was a crime. In order to investigate, we have to know as much as possible about the person's habits and mental condition. We've got to narrow down the range of possible reasons until we can rule out all but one. If we knew, for instance, if something was bothering Tricia, then we'd have something to work with."

"I see." Nadine Sciorra bit her lower lip. "I'm sorry I can't help you there. She hardly ever talked about her personal life. Although..." She furrowed her brow. "Now that you say it... I think that something was indeed bothering her."

Sam and Danny both looked up. "Really?"

"I don't know for sure," Ms. Sciorra warned. "It's just... three days ago someone visited her. A very handsome young man."

"Her date?"

"No, Tricia's not dating anyone at the moment. That's something we _do _talk about," she added with a smile. "Men. For all I know, Tricia hasn't had a boyfriend, or even a date, since she moved here three years ago. She'd sometimes complain that she was so unlucky when it came to love."

"So this handsome man...?"

"I don't know who he was, but Tricia seemed very surprised to see him."

"Surprised? In what way?"

"Pleased, I'd say." Ms. Sciorra shrugged. "It seemed to me as if she hadn't seen him in a long time and would never have thought that one day he'd knock on her door."

"An ex boyfriend, maybe?"

"I don't think so. Maybe an old school friend or a former colleague."

"Did you hear his name?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"How long did he stay?"

"I don't know exactly. But I saw Tricia later that night, perhaps around nine, and then she was alone. And when I think about it... she seemed slightly irritated," she said slowly. "Not furious, as if after a fight, but something must have annoyed her."

"Did she say what it was?"

"We didn't talk. She didn't see me; I came up the stairs and she had just gotten her mail, I believe, and I heard her murmur, _Who does he think he is, that jerk_."

"Was that the last time you saw her?"

"No, I saw her yesterday evening, but we only said hello. She did seem a little quieter than usual, though, but I thought she'd just had a hard day. She was at a conference yesterday that lasted all day, and she said she felt as if her brains had turned to mush and there was a knot in her tongue."

"Do you think it's possible that this man upset her so much that the things he said were troubling her even three days later?"

"I really can't say. As I said, I have no idea what that meeting was all about. But yes, I think that's possible, especially if they parted in trouble and didn't resolve anything. Tricia needs harmony; quarrels unsettle her."

Sam and Danny exchanged a glance. "Do you know anyone who could tell us a little more about Tricia?" Sam asked. "A friend or a relative with whom she has regular contact?"

"Miss Downs," Nadine said promptly. "She went to school with Tricia, I believe. Cordelia Downs. She's an artist or something. She's Tricia's best friend."

Sam got up. "Thank you, Ms. Sciorra," she said. "You've been very cooperative. One thing more, though... if we can't find the man who visited Tricia, would you help us draw up a phantom picture?"

Ms. Sciorra nodded enthusiastically. "Sure. I'll do whatever I can to help you find Tricia. I hope she's alright," she added silently.

"We'll do our best," Danny assured her with his most charming smile. "We'll call you when we have further questions."

"Anytime, Agents." Nadine opened the door for them. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Do you happen to have a key for Tricia's apartment? Then we wouldn't have to force the door open." Danny had the decency to blush a little bit.

She nodded. "We exchanged our keys shortly after Tricia moved in," she explained while she rummaged through her purse. "As you can see, I have a lot of plants that need to be watered when I'm not there. And Tricia used to have a guinea pig, Fredegar, which I fed when she had a job in another state or something. Fred died last year, though." She had found the key and handed it to Sam. "If I'm gone when you're finished, just drop it into my mailbox," she instructed the agents. "And if you have any more questions..."

"... we'll call." Sam smiled. "Thank you, Ms. Sciorra."

She and Danny left # 311 and unlocked the door of # 313.

The first thing they noticed was the fresh air. Sam looked around and noticed that the bedroom window was open, and the wind blowing through it in turn reached the living room through the door that stood ajar. Sam went over and closed the window; the october wind was quite cold and she didn't think that Tricia Quinlan would like to return to a frozen apartment. Besides, the wind might mess up any possible evidence.

She looked around in the tastefully furnished room. A large bed, but only one set of covers. A wardrobe with a large mirror. A shelf above the head, crammed with books. Sam quickly scanned the assortment and noticed that Patricia Quinlan seemed to have a very broad taste in literature. The books included classics such as Oscar Wilde, Charles Dickens and Jane Austen as well as a few ladies of crime - Agatha Christie, Ruth Rendell and Val McDermid -, Dan Brown, Tolkien, _Harry Potter_, Diana Gabaldon and some Spanish books by Gabriel García Márquez.

The nightstand was occupied by a small radio that probably served as an alarm clock, another half-read book (_La sombra del viento _by Carlos Ruiz Zafón) and a small bottle of water that was half empty.

On the wall opposite the bed was a chair draped with discarded clothes. Above the chair on the wall hung a large poster of Salvador Dalí's famous painting about time.

"Sam?" Danny called out.

Sam left the bedroom and joined her partner in the living room. "Found anything?"

Danny pointed at the glass table that stood in one corner before a small couch and two armchairs. "I don't know if it's important, but look at the newspapers."

Sam frowned. It appeared that Tricia had subscribed to the _New York Times_, since there was a pile of last and this week's editions on the table, neatly stacked. She opened her mouth in order to ask what was so special about that, but then she looked at the paper on top of the pile. It was the edition of October 16. Today was October 18. She looked through the stack and found the editions of today and yesterday under the top one.

"I don't know if it's relevant," Danny remarked, "but it looks as if there was something interesting in that paper. She must have read it again and then put it back on top."

"Right," Sam said. "That also means that she was still here this morning. She got today's newspaper, and it's under that of the sixteenth."

"Meaning she re-read that edition this morning." Danny frowned. "I'll get one, too, and check it. Maybe I'll find out what she thought so interesting."

Further scrutiny of Patricia Quinlan's apartment revealed nothing relevant. Sam and Danny looked through her computer files but found only business letters, invoices and translations, the latter being quite old and completely out of date. Sam remembered that Tricia had not worked as a translator for a year but rather concentrated fully on interpreting, first the exams half a year ago and then professional life. They looked through the shelves, the desk and the cupboard and came up with more books, CDs, DVDs, printouts, tablecloths, cutlery, china, sheet music, photo albums, folders containing tax documents and Tricia's personal documents, vocabulary lists and millions of other small things. Patricia Quinlan seemed to keep everything, from baby pictures via high school yearbooks to old conference documentation from various jobs.

But nothing that helped Sam and Danny.

**xxx**

_02:00 pm. 5 hours missing._

Cordelia Downs was a conspicuous person. Tall and slender, a natural blonde with an air of confidence and authority about her, but with a smile that betrayed her good sense of humor. Sam was surprised when she looked closer and noticed that her face was actually not pretty at all - her eyes were quite small, her nose too large and slightly crooked. But the overall impression was still that of an attractive woman.

She met the agents in her office, a large, bright room with glass walls on the top floor of a twenty-three-story building in the heart of Manhattan. As a graphic designer, she probably needed a lot of light.

Sam and Danny sat down opposite her, and Cordelia leaned back in her chair, her brow slightly furrowed with worry.

"This is completely unlike Tricia," she said firmly when Danny had finished explaining why they were here. "How can I be of help?"

"Nadine Sciorra told us that you're Tricia's closest friend," Sam replied. "We were hoping you might know what was on her mind lately."

Cordelia bit her lower lip. "I talked to her on the phone a few days ago," she said, "but I have no idea what was eating her."

"Eating her? So you thought something was wrong about her?"

"Well, she seemed lost in thought when I called her," Cordelia answered. "We didn't talk long; she said she'd had a hard day and wanted nothing but a bath and something hot to drink. But she seemed more, dunno, reserved that usual. She was very... monosyllabic. As if she wasn't really listening to what I was saying. I paid no mind 'cause, well, she had warned me, after all. Hard day, et cetera."

"When exactly did you call her?" Sam asked.

"Three days ago. At about a quarter to six, if that helps."

Sam checked her notes. "Ms. Sciorra told us that Tricia had a visitor three days ago. Did she mention anything like that on the phone?"

"A visitor?" Cordelia's surprise was genuine. "Not a word. What visitor?"

"Ms. Sciorra wouldn't say. A very handsome young man, that's all she could tell us."

Cordelia's face revealed utter perplexion. "She never said a word that she was dating anyone," she said.

"Ms. Sciorra doesn't think it was a date. Rather some old acquaintance. Tricia seemed very surprised to see him. Do you have any idea who that might have been?"

"Old acquaintance?" Cordelia pondered. "Perhaps Terry Williams," she suggested at last. "Terry was a good friend of hers back in high school. They were neighbors. When Tricia moved out, they lost touch. Sometimes she'd talk about him and say how much she'd like to see him again. But as far as I know they never managed to meet. Terry already has two kids," she added. "I reckon he was simply lacking the time, or his wife didn't want him to have woman friends... Who knows." She smirked. "Tricia wouldn't dream of hooking up with Terry, he's always been a sort of brother for her, but I reckon she would indeed be very surprised if he suddenly turned up at her door."

"Would he match the description, then? Very handsome?"

Cordelia grinned. "Depends on taste, don't you think? But I suppose that many women would regard Terry as a very attractive man."

"We'll check." Sam made a note. "Does Patricia Quinlan have any enemies?"

"Certainly not," Cordelia said positively. "She's a good person, and most people like her. She's friendly and honest. A skilled and reliable worker, but she never shows off with it. I can't think of any possible reason to hold a grudge against her."

"Maybe she offended someone? Involuntarily, perhaps? Or she knew something she shouldn't?"

Cordelia smiled. "You mean like Nicole Kidman in _The Interpreter_?" she asked. "I doubt it. Tricia's a freelancer; she works at conferences and assemblies and council meetings, and sometimes for TV. Nothing that might have to do with homeland security or secret policies and government conspiracies or something like that."

"And you don't think it's possible that Tricia had, let's say, an affair with a married man or so..."

Cordelia sneered. "Tricia? No way! She would never do this to any other woman, even if she doesn't know her. Tricia would never hurt anyone." She looked at Sam and Danny. "Listen, you wanna learn something about her, right?"

"That's always helpful," Sam agreed.

"Then I'll show you something. Maybe that'll help you understand what kind of person Patricia Quinlan is."

Cordelia stood up, reached for a framed picture on the shelf behind her back and handed it over to Sam and Danny.

"That was taken at the prom," Cordelia explained. "Tricia and me."

The girls in the picture had put their arms around each other and laughed into the camera. Both wore dark blue dresses; Cordelia's ended above the knee and Tricia's went all the way down to the ankles.

Sam was surprised. The girls seemed so different. Cordelia's smile was open, confident and radiant; Tricia seemed shy and a little awkward. She appeared even plumper next to Cordelia's breathtaking figure. It took a second glance to notice the girl's pretty face, her pearly white teeth, her large eyes, their immensely dark blue matching the color of her dress. Tricia's hair was slightly curled and was cleverly done up at the back of her head. Something shimmered in her hair: small silver pearls had been attached to several strands.

"She looked so beautiful," said Cordelia, looking affectionately at the picture. "But no matter how often we told her, she wouldn't believe it. You see, Tricia has often been made fun of, especially in primary school and junior high, because of her slight overweight. You know how cruel children can be, don't you? Especially those spoiled rich girls who are generally deemed _most popular_. You know them, don't you, Agent Spade? They went to your school, too..." Cordelia visibly shook off the memory. "Well, what I'm saying is that Tricia was harboring this deep conviction that she was ugly. I didn't meet her until ninth grade, and then it became a little better. Tricia has always been introverted and shy, but I managed to raise her self-esteem a little bit. The problem was that no one looked at her long enough to notice that wonderful person. And Tricia never believed that any boy could find her attractive, so she didn't even try anything. I remember she was having that violent crush on one of our classmates. But all she did was admiring him from the distance. She'd look at him when no one noticed, she'd choose the same courses as he did, and so on and so forth. What was most important to Tricia was that he knew who she was. She knew she couldn't expect anything more, so she decided she'd be content with that.

"So you may imagine that Tricia felt really honored and excited when that guy asked her to help him with Spanish. She probably saved his ass, excuse my language, for otherwise he certainly would've failed the exams. And do you know what this arrogant jerk did to thank her? He greeted her in the corridors!" Cordelia's eyes blazed. "He let the rest of the school know that he knew her. He called this _improving her social status. _Talked to her for a few minutes during lunch break, or asked her a question on the way to the gym. And Tricia was _happy! _Do you see what I mean? She was so madly in love with him, and yet she was happy about a condescending hello every now and then!"

Cordelia smiled ruefully. "That's Tricia, you see? When I asked her why she was so happy about that strange arrangement, she said that in a way it was a better compliment that any flirtation, because it meant that he respected her. He talked to her _despite _the fact that he didn't think her attractive, and for Tricia that meant that he was really interested in what she had to say, not just the way she looked. You might say she turned in a buddy instead of a lover, and that was OK by her. Somehow it even helped her get over him. He asked her for a dance at the prom, I remember that. That was really nice of him, but still I could've killed him for his behavior.

"Since high school, Tricia has become still a little more confident. A little more courageous. She's no longer as shy and introverted as she used to be. When you see her, you get the impression that she's a strong woman of character, confident and stable. That's probably because of her profession. But when it comes to romance, these old weaknesses show again. This conviction of not being attractive enough is still rooted in her.

"And that's why Tricia would never hook up with a married man," Cordelia ended. "First, because she wouldn't even notice his advances if he screamed it to her face; second, because it's a strict taboo to her, anyway; and third, because Tricia knows very well the way it feels when the man you're in love with gets involved with another woman. She experienced that very often. She just wouldn't be capable of doing this to someone else. That's also the reason why she never talks about anyone behind their backs," Cordelia added.

Sam and Danny exchanged a glance. "Thank you for your openness, Ms. Downs," Danny said. "I, for my part, feel as if I'd known Patricia Quinlan for ages now. Although I've never seen her before."

Cordelia grinned. "I talk a lot if you let me," she said, half apologetically, half ironically. "You should've interrupted me if you'd noticed you didn't need all the info."

"Everything's helpful," Sam pointed out. "We're gonna try and put the jigsaw together. Now that we've heard your story, I'm sure that we'll have a lot to work with. We'll call you if we have any further questions."

**xxx**

**Patricia Quinlan, 23 yrs. **

Interpreter (freelance)

_Missing since October 18, 09:00 am._

**Recent activities:**

**3 DBD **

**05:45 pm: talks on the phone to C. Downs; seems lost in thought**

**evening: unexpected visitor; handsome young man; gone at 09:00 pm**

**2 DBD**

**morning: finds interesting article in _NY Times_**

**1 DBD**

**evening: meets N. Sciorra; seems exhausted and quieter than usual**

**Day of Disappearance:**

**morning: re-reads _NY Times article_**

**08:30 am: does not appear at Selene Foundation, as promised**

**09:25 am: called in missing by K. Young**


	6. NOW AND THEN

**CHAPTER FIVE - Now and Then**

_October 15, 2005. Tricia's place. NYC. 05:37 pm._

_3 days before disappearance._

Tricia hadn't managed to watch the news for days. She'd hardly had time to scan the newspaper headlines, let alone thoroughly read the articles. Last week had been crammed with work.

Tricia did not complain; as a newbie on the market, she was quite lucky to have so many jobs. She knew a number of people who had spent the first few months, sometimes even years, waiting for the job offers to come rolling in.

But the consequence was that she hardly had time for herself. The book she was reading had lain around on her nightstand for almost a week, and she did not even know when she had for the last time simply leaned back and watched a movie.

Or the news, for that matter.

Tricia leaned back on her sofa and pulled her feet under her body. She longed for a bath and for a cup of steaming hot tea, but at the moment all she was able to do was sit still and look at the TV screen.

She switched on CNN. The news had already begun, and the newscaster was just announcing a change of topic.

_"New York City. The body that was found yesterday in the woods has meanwhile been identified as Mr. Garrett Chase, a salesman from Queens, who went missing six years ago. The police investigates the case. They suppose that Mr. Chase fell victim to a hit-and-run with a stolen car. Evidence strongly suggests that the car that was used was stolen on April 7, 1999 from a side street on the West Side. The car is a red Corvette, license plate ROY101, registered in New York State. It was found again two days later. The police calls on all citizens to report anything that might be connected to the car theft or Mr. Chase's death._

_"New Orleans..."_

Tricia's thoughts drifted. A red Corvette? That rang a bell in her memory. She associated something with that type of car.

Before she could get a firm grip on the memory, she was woken from her reverie when the phone started to ring. She pressed the mute button on her remote control and answered the phone.

Cordelia.

Suddenly Tricia remembered Morris Greek, and she all but gasped. Of course, how could she forget? Thanks to Morris Greek, she knew what a Corvette looked like. Little wonder that that type of car reminded her of him.

God, how long hadn't she thought of him.

Cordelia was telling her something about a new logo she was designing, and Tricia made an effort to listen. Of course, Cordelia noticed that she wasn't really paying attention, but Tricia just explained that she'd had a hard day and wanted nothing but a bath and a hot drink.

"Oh, I saw Alejandra Zapatero the other day," Cordelia said abruptly. "At least I'm pretty sure it was her. She looked horrible."

Tricia laughed. "Horrible? Our beauty queen?"

"Yes," Cordelia assured her. "She must have taken on a good twenty pounds, but she still dresses the way she did in high school. You can imagine what _that _looks like..."

"Ugh," Tricia commented.

"She looked like a whore, and a very cheap one, too." Cordelia's voice was flat with disgust. "But you know what? She deserves it."

"Don't be so bitchy," Tricia contradicted. "I never liked her, either, but you know people can change, don't you? Maybe something tragic happened to her and threw her off course."

"Trish, you're way too good-hearted," Cordelia sighed. "People like Alejandra I'm-the-queen-of-the-world Zapatero never change. Once a bitch, always a bitch."

"But some people really change," Tricia protested. "Look at Terry Williams, for instance. He's a stay-at-home dad, for God's sake; would you ever have thought that? Or Kilian O'Rourke; he used to make fun of me in quite a cruel way sometimes, but when I met him the other day we talked and got along really well, and there was no mockery or animosity whatsoever in his conduct. And that wasn't because of the fact I've lost quite a lot of weight since then," she added with an audible smirk.

"But those are different kinds," Cordelia said. "Terry was a rebel, and Kilian was an immature bully who probably grew up a little. But both were neither self-centered nor arrogant. And these are characteristics that stay. Alejandra, Macy, and the others will always look down on women who don't look as if they come from a photo shooting for _Cosmopolitan_."

"Do you think the same thing is true for boys?" Tricia asked.

"What, that they don't change?"

"That they always look down on the people they looked down on before."

Cordelia certainly shrugged; Tricia could almost see her. "I suppose so. Why are you asking?"

"I don't know," Tricia said, "I was just thinking of Morris."

"You were thinking of... Morris _Greek_?" Cordelia sounded incredolous. "_That _Morris?"

Tricia felt her face go red and was glad that Cordelia could not see her through the phone wire. "Yeah, that Morris," she replied. "I suddenly had to think of him. Don't know why," she lied.

"People like Morris Greek, my dear Tricia, are the worst kind," Cordelia said in her best imitation of a kindergarten teacher. "They're bound to stay the same simply because they never _noticed _how arrogant they are. I mean, when Morris talked to you back in high school, remember? I bet he really thought he was doing something good and unselfish. He probably told himself that it was the best thing he could do for you. But I doubt very much that he ever noticed how arrogant this was. I mean, hello? For him, something that should actually be an ordinary thing - conversation - turned into something very special as soon as it involved himself."

"But the weird thing is that it actually _was _the best thing he could do," Tricia said. "I mean, you know the way I was back then. The way we all were. When you're in high school, all that counts is your image. And you can say whatever you like, but Morris _did _help me improve my image. So whatever his motives were, the thing is that it worked out. Alejandra and the others stopped picking on me."

"Alright," Cordelia conceded, "I see your point. But what I'm saying is that he's most certainly still the same. Arrogant and self-centered. Of course, he can be nice," she added quickly, sensing that Tricia wanted to interrupt her. "He could be quite charming, especially after he'd had a few beers. Being self-centered doesn't mean you never say a friendly word to anyone..."

"He _was _friendly to me in the end," Tricia said musingly. "I guess that sort of helped me to get over him. Weird, isn't it? The better I knew him, the less I loved him."

"Because you began to see the person, not just the good-looking hero," Cordelia agreed. "And he had a good reason to be nice to you; after all you'd saved his ass."

Tricia was shocked for a moment. She'd never told anyone about the car! Then it dawned on her that Cordelia probably referred to Morris's Spanish exams.

Her guilty conscience weighed heavy on her. Of course, it could be a mere coincidence. Who said that the red Corvette that had been mentioned by the police was the one that morris had stolen back then? She didn't even know on which day that had been.

On the other hand... it must have been in or around April. And it had been a side street on the West Side. And Morris had said he'd return the car.

Too many coincidences.

_No_, she told herself, _Morris wouldn't have done such a thing. He might be arrogant, superficial and self-centered, but he's always been honest. Even back in school, he was never downright cruel. Impossible... Morris is not a murderer!_

"Tri-ish! Are you listening?" Cordelia sounded exasperated, and Tricia's mind snapped back to the present.

"Sorry," she said hastily. "I sort of drifted. Look, I'm really tired. Can we talk another day?"

"Sure." Cordelia sounded only slightly offended, and Tricia laughed.

"Next week I'll pick you up at work and treat you to a coffee," she offered. "Compensation. But I really don't think I'm a good listener tonight."

"Sure," Cordelia repeated, but this time she seemed to mean it. "I understand. Ben's coming over in a few, anyway."

"Tell him I said hi."

"He'll be delighted. We should go out some time soon, the three of us. Ben says he's been missing you."

"And you didn't dump him for that?"

Cordelia laughed, and Tricia joined in.

"Are you really sure you're alright? You seem so... absent-minded," Cordelia asked again after they'd calmed down.

"Yes, I am. Just tired, as I said." Tricia bit her lip. She did not want to lie to her friend, but this time, she had no other choice.

They said goodbye, and then Tricia hung up and stared blankly at the TV screen, lost in thought once more.

Should she tell the police what she'd seen? Break the promise she'd given Morris?

But th situation was different now, was it? Back then, it had only been about a car that would be returned later. Now it was about murder, or at least manslaughter, and concealment of the said offense. Wasn't it her duty as a responsible citizen to help clear the matter up?

**xxx**

The knock on the door startled her.

It was already dark outside, and Tricia had indeed taken a long bath. She'd read almost sixty pages of her novel until her soaked skin had reminded her of the fact that even the longest bath must come to an end. She'd dressed in a night blue silk nightgown with a matching kimono - a gift from Cordelia when she'd passed the final exams - and made a large pot of vanilla flavored tea. Then she'd settled in front of the TV and had gotten about halfway through _The Return of the King _when the aforementioned knock on the door interrupted Billy Boyd's heartbreaking rendition of _The Edge of Night_.

Grumbling with disapproval, Tricia wrapped her kimono tighter around her body and shoved her stockinged feet into a pair of slippers. Whoever it was, the timing was very bad.

She turned the key, removed the chain and opened the door.

It took her at least ten seconds to recognize the handsome young man who was standing outside. Then something clicked, and Tricia's jaw almost dropped down in surprise.

"Now what the..." She trailed off, swallowed and started anew. "What are _you _doing here!"

Morris Greek, who looked almost as surprised as she did, made a visible effort not to stare at her. "I, uh, was in the building and saw your name on the mailbox downstairs," he explained. "Thought I'd say hi." His face broke into the brilliant, charming smile that Tricia remembered so well now. She noticed that his gaze kept returning to her hips and waist, clearly outlined under the kimono, as if he was wondering where the rest of her was. _Oh yes, you just stare, _she thought. _Who would've thought that fat little Tricia Quinlan would lose weight like that?_

"You look great," Morris said after an awkward pause.

"Thank you." Tricia forced herself not to blush. "Uhm, so do you."

They fell silent for a moment. Then Tricia pulled herself together. "Come in," she said, opening the door a little wider and stepping aside to let him pass. "Sorry I was a little stunned at first, but I'd never have thought that you'd show up at my door just like that."

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Morris said, as if he'd only just remembered that his visit might not be convenient.

Tricia had to suppress a smile. This was so much like the Morris Greek she knew that it was almost ridiculous. "Just a little," she said with a smirk, closing the door behind her. "You caught me on my first relaxed evening in more than a week."

"Working hard, are you?" Morris looked around in her apartment and settled down on the sofa without waiting for her to offer him the seat.

"I am, but it's fun," Tricia replied. Her mind was settling down after the surprise and she began to think clearly once again. Excusing herself, she snuck into her bedroom, quickly dressed again in blue jeans and a tank top and emerged into the living room just in time to see Morris look through her CDs.

He really had not changed much; no matter where he was, he always made himself at home very quickly. She remembered what Cordelia had said earlier today: _They're bound to stay the same simply because they never noticed how arrogant they are. _And that natural arrogance still radiated off Morris Greek. When Tricia looked at him now, she wondered why on earth she had been so madly in love with him. True, he was extremely good-looking and could be very charming when he wanted to, but like Dorian Gray, his flawless appearance did not reflect his character. Tricia was glad that she'd noticed that in time. Now she could look at Morris Greek without having her belly flip with excitement every time their eyes met. She was pleased to see him again, but the pleasure had nothing to do with the feelings she'd once had for him. He was simply an old classmate, and seeing him again meant to wax nostalgic for a while, exchange information about how their respective lives had been since high school, and then part again with no ulterior motives in mind.

_Good plan, Tricia, _she told herself.

"Found something you like?" she asked, referring to the CDs Morris was still scrutinizing.

He turned around, not in the least embarrassed that she'd caught him sneaking around. "I had no idea you liked heavy metal," he said.

"Heavy met... oh, I see." Tricia grinned. He had discovered her collection of Metallica CDs. "I'm not really into heavy metal," she explained, "but I absolutely love Metallica and Creed."

"I never knew," Morris repeated, and Tricia laughed.

"You never asked," she retorted.

"_Touché_." Morris picked Creed's _Human Clay _and put it into the CD player.

"Want a beer?" Tricia offered.

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"I take that as a yes," Tricia replied wryly. She went into the kitched and got two cans of cooled Heinecken. "Here, catch!"

Morris caught the can elegantly with his left hand.

Tricia settled down on the opposite end of the sofa and they stayed silent for a moment. Then Morris asked, "So, what are you doing?"

This was such an obvious attempt at small talk that Tricia suppressed the urge to laugh. Nevertheless the question was justified, and she duly answered.

"Interpreter, huh?" Morris repeated. "Should've thought you'd do something with languages."

"And you?" Tricia asked. "Last I heard was you couldn't choose between lawyer and journalist..."

Morris gaped at her. "What, you still remember that? I'm impressed!"

"I've a good memory," Tricia said casually.

She looked at Morris just in time to see something close to panic flicker in his eyes. But an instant later, that expression was gone and was replaced by amusement, so she blamed the beer and did not dwell on the notion.

"I'm indeed a journalist," Morris said, a little belated. "Freelancer, too. Always chasing The Story, you know, with a capital S."

"Successfully?" Tricia asked.

"Haven't won the Pulitzer yet, if that's what you mean," Morris joked. "But it's a living."

"Quite a good one, I suppose," Tricia said, casting a meaningful glance at his D&G shirt and Prada shoes.

For some inexplicable reason, Morris blushed slightly and quickly changed the topic.

"Are you still in touch with someone from high school?" he asked.

"Very few people," Tricia replied. "Cordelia Downs, of course, and technically Terry Williams, too, though I haven't seen him for years. He's got two kids, you know," she added as an explanation.

"He must be out of his mind," Morris commented.

"He's ravished," Tricia contradicted. "He's very proud of his boys."

"Well, what do they say, there's no accounting for taste." Morris sighed. "I don't think I'm ever gonna have children," he remarked.

"Truth be told, I, too, find it rather hard to imagine you as a dad," Tricia said, only half joking. "But I guess such things always depend on your partner. Who knows, maybe one day you'll see a woman and tell yourself, _She's gonna have my babies_..."

"So you don't think I've already found the love of my life?" His intense gaze held hers until Tricia looked away, slightly confused.

"How the hell should I know?" she answered. "I haven't seen you for six years or so. Your private life is none of my business."

"But once it was, back then, wasn't it?" Morris was still looking at her, and although Tricia was no longer seventeen, it made her nervous.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, Tricia. We both know very well what I mean." Was she imagining things or had he moved a little closer? Tricia did not know whether to feel flattered or uncomfortable.

"Perhaps," she replied cautiously. "But as you said, that was _back then_. The _here and now _is slightly different."

"_Slightly_ different?" She certainly did not hallucinate; Morris was indeed moving closer.

"Don't be so meticulous. You're a journalist; don't you recognize irony when it jumps right in your face?" Her answer sounded bolder than she felt. Yet she did not shrink away when Morris's hand touched her leg. She was not quite clear about her own emotions. She was over Morris Greek, but although she knew exactly where they were heading she did not protest. Feeling oddly detached, she watched as Morris took the can of beer from her hand, put it on the table, covered the last remaining distance between them and touched the side of her face.

"You look really great," he whispered.

"Do I?" she wanted to reply, but his lips were already on hers. Soft at first, like a breath of air, but with increasing determination. He gently forced her lips apart and she did not protest as his tongue slid into her mouth. Almost unconsciously she kissed him back.

_So that's what it feels like to be kissed by Morris Greek_, she thought, her mind oddly analytic. And then, with a very slight pang of regret, _Too bad it's too late for that. If I was seventeen again, this would be a dream come true..._

She did not retreat at once, however; regardless of her now inexistent feelings for Morris, it felt good to be kissed by such a handsome man, especially one for whom she had longed more than a year. Besides, it had been a while since Tricia had last been kissed, and for once, she allowed herself to take and savor without thinking of the consequences.

The kiss deepened even more, and Morris was gently pressing her back down on the sofa. One of his hands stroked the side of her body from shoulder to hip. When he moved back up, his hand slid under her tank top, caressing the bare skin underneath. She shivered; only once before had she been touched like that. Her body arched slightly against his, and she ran her fingers through his curly hair.

Then his lips were on her neck and his hand reached her breast, cupping it, and Tricia snapped back to reality. A little bit of snootching was alright, but nothing more. Not with a man she did not love.

She turned her head away from him and plucked his hand from her breast.

"Time's up, Casanova." She scrambled out from underneath him and sat up straight.

Morris gaped at her. Open-mouthed and disheveled as he was, he looked more ridiculous than seductive.

"Wha... what do you mean?" he finally asked, completely astonished.

"You heard me," Tricia replied. "I've given you the brush-off."

"Ouch, Tricia."

"You'll live," she said wryly and handed him his abandoned can of beer. "Here, drown the shock. I suppose that doesn't happen to you very often?"

Morris, still stunned, downed the rest of the lukewarm beer at once. "Why?" he asked.

Tricia sighed. "'Cause this is the here and now and not the back then, my dear Morris," she said. "Your timing is bad. Six years ago this would've ended differently, but now I'm over you. _Com-plete-ly_." She stressed every syllable by stabbing her finger on his chest.

"Six years ago we'd never have gotten so far," Morris countered, not exactly tactfully. "But at least you admit that you had a crush on me?"

"Why not? It's in the past. I was young and stupid."

"What, you think it was stupid to fall in love with me?" It was hard to tell whether Morris felt genuinely offended.

"I think it was stupid to fall in love with you without even knowing what kind of person you were," Tricia corrected. "As you might remember, we didn't officially meet until later."

Morris's face momentarily froze, and Tricia felt little icicles trickle down her spine. This was the second time that he reacted strangely when she referred to memory. It did not take much to draw the necessary conclusions - something in the past made him feel extremely uncomfortable. Something that involved him and her - and there was only one thing that really connected them.

What she had feared all day seemed to become reality.

"Why are you really here, Morris?" she asked abruptly.

He avoided her gaze. "I don't know what you mean."

"You know very well what I mean," Tricia insisted. "You sought me out, didn't you? You came here on purpose, but you preferred to make it look like a coincidence. Why, Morris? It has something to do with that car, doesn't it?"

Morris did not have to reply. His shocked expression spoke volumes.

"So it's true?" Tricia whispered. "It was you? You ran that man over and buried him?"

"No!" Morris protested. "It wasn't like that..."

"You killed a man, Morris!"

"It was an accident!"

"I'm sure it was, but this is not funny anymore, Morris. You've got to tell the police."

"Are you mad? I can't tell the police!"

Tricia looked at him. "If you don't, then I will. I never told anyone, Morris; I kept my promise, just like you did. But this is more than we bargained for. I thought it was simply a case of car theft, but now it's homicide! I want no part in this."

"Don't tell anyone, please, Tricia!" Morris implored, and Tricia had a strong feeling of déjà vu. She had heard him speak exactly these words to her before. Back then, she had done what he'd asked.

But now...

"Morris, you've got to confess," she said again.

"And if I don't, then you're gonna tell on me?" Suddenly there was steel in Morris's voice. All charms and flirtation had disappeared from his conduct; all of a sudden, he seemed damn serious, almost dangerous. He bowed to her until their faces were only inches apart. His gray eyes seemed to pierce right through her. "I'll see to it that you won't." His voice was barely more than a whisper. His hand closed around her wrist, and Tricia clenched her teeth as a searing pain shot up her arm.

But with the pain came anger.

"Are you completely out of your mind?" she hissed. Shaking his hand off, she jumped up and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "What makes you think you could intimidate me with threats? I'm not afraid of you, Morris Greek, so don't make a fool of yourself!"

"You're not afraid of me, eh? Maybe you should." Morris barked a short, humorless laugh. "After all, I killed a man. Your words."

"But you're not a murderer," Tricia said, still more irritated. "Don't be ridiculous. Stop threatening me. Who do you think you are?"

"You shouldn't feel so secure," Morris said.

"You can't frighten me, I know you too well," Tricia shouted at him. "And now get out of here!"

"You won't tell," Morris reiterated.

"I'll give you a few days' time to think about it," Tricia replied. "But when these days are over, one of us _will _tell the police what happened back then. And I'd be very glad if _you_ were the one." Her voice suddenly dropped down and assumed another tone, a calm and confident tone. It was the voice she employed when she worked. "It's not gonna be so bad," she said. "You were a minor when it happened, and I'm sure they'll understand it was an accident. It'll make a good impression if you surrender."

"I won't do any such thing."

"Then I can't help you," Tricia said coolly. "And now get out of my apartment!"

Morris seemed to sense that there was no way he could possibly persuade her to change her mind. "You'll hear from me," he warned her.

"Wrong, loverboy. _You'll _hear from _me_," Tricia retorted. "I'll give you one last warning before I go to the police. But I'd prefer you not to need that warning."

"We'll see," Morris spat out. His eyes were blazing, but rage mingled with fear.

He left her apartment and slammed the door behind him.

Tricia was left behind. She was on the verge of tears. Morris had admitted that he had been guilty of Garrett Chase's death.

For six years she had covered for a killer.


	7. THE CONNECTION

**CHAPTER SIX - The Connection**

_October 19, 2005. CSI headquarters. NYC. 08:54 am._

_23 hours 54 minutes missing._

"Hey, Burn, look what I've got here!" Danny burst into the lab, waving a stack of computer printouts. Judging from his triumphant smile, he must have discovered something really groundbreaking.

Aiden finished the entry she was writing, pushed the microscope aside and looked at her excited partner.

"Fingerprints?" she asked.

Danny shook his head. He gestured at her to join him at the table and spread out the printouts he'd carried.

"I had a look at the area where Red Roy's Corvette was stolen," he explained. "I thought maybe I'd find the resident street gang or something like that."

"Aye," said Aiden with a wide grin.

Danny ignored the tease with as much dignity as he could muster. "Then," he continued, "I checked how many cars disappeared in that area between January and June of '99." He pointed at the corresponding printout - a street map of the neighborhood marked with little dots in different colors. "Blue dot means the car turned up again as a whole, red dot means the car's gone for good, yellow means parts of the car turned up later in various places," he explained.

Aiden scrutinized the map, frowning. At first glance, there was just a huge chaos of dots, but when she looked closer she noticed something.

"The blue dots are all centered around a relatively small area," she remarked.

Danny beamed at her. "Exactly," he said. "And now look what's in that center." He poked his pen at a building that was completely surrounded by blue dots. "John Steinbeck High School."

Aiden looked up, and their eyes met. Danny nodded.

"Yes," he confirmed her unspoken assumption. "I'm thinking the same. High school kids who _borrow _cars for joyrides. Maybe they wanna impress their girlfriends, or it's a test of some sort, or simply their idea of sport. That sort of thing is not uncommon among the youth of America."

"Not bad, Danny Messer," Aiden remarked.

Danny's grin widened even more. "I've got more," he announced. "I broadened the time frame, and what do you think did I find out?"

"Tell me."

"After June '99, the thefts suddenly stopped. Or rather, this particular wave of thefts. Of course, cars kept being stolen, but not to that extent. And most of the cars stolen after June did _not _turn up again. And what do we learn from that, Burn?"

"That the car thieves probably graduated in '99 or left the school for some other reason!" Aiden slammed her palm on the table. "Danny, sometimes you're a genius!"

Danny seemed a few inches taller.

"So you think there was a certain gang at Steinbeck High who stole cars, cruised around for a bit and then left them standing somewhere," Aiden summed up. "Why not sell them?"

"I guess they were lacking the contacts," Danny assumed. "Steinbeck High is quite a good school, no breeding ground for criminals. I suppose those kids just wanted to have a little fun but shied away from a, let's say, complete crime."

"In other words, they were lacking the galls," Aiden said. "So what do you think happened? One of those kids had an accident but was too afraid of the consequences?"

"That's what I thought," Danny confirmed.

"Have you already told Mac?"

"Not yet. I wanted to tell you first..."

"I'm flattered!"

"... so we could get the names of all the graduates and present Mac with a wonderful list of suspects."

Aiden pouted. "I take it back, I'm _not _flattered. You just want to impress Mac..."

Danny laughed. "It's so rare that I make an important discovery, I wanna savor my triumph!" He suddenly swept Aiden up in his arms and waltzed with her through the lab. Aiden laughed so hard that she all but collapsed against him. Danny laughed with her, and it seemed only natural to remain the way they were while they were fighting for breath. No one could say when their mock dance became an embrace, but when their laughter had subsided, they found themselves standing right there in the lab with their arms firmly around each other. An awkward silence spread between them, something neither Aiden nor Danny was familiar with.

A beep from one of the instruments broke the spell. Aiden lifted her head from Danny's shoulder, surprised at her own reluctance to do so, and looked for the source of the noise.

"I, uhm, have to..." She made a vague gesture, and Danny let go of her.

"Yeah. Sure." Their eyes met and the awkwardness returned, but only for a moment. Then Aiden swallowed and resolutely turned back to her instruments.

"So what are you gonna do next?" she asked, her back to him.

"Call the school, I suppose." She could almost hear him shrug. "Get a list of graduates."

"Come back here when you have it, will you?" Aiden smiled at him over her shoulder. "Four eyes see more than two, right?"

"You mean six," Danny joked. Aiden was confused for a moment until she remembered that "four-eyes" was a very common nickname among kids for someone who was wearing glasses.

"I'll get my sunglasses, then it's eight, and we're bound to find our guy," she said.

Danny laughed and left the lab. Aiden returned to her work and cursed herself for feeling so excited. She tried to convince herself that it was only because of the progress they'd just made in their case, but her shaking fingers, quickened pulse and slightly elated mood told her otherwise. She had always joked and flirted around with Danny, but never before had she sensed such a strong sexual tension between them. She'd had to force back the urge to touch his face, and she had seen the same in his eyes.

_No way, Burn_, she told herself. _Never date a guy you're working with. _

The guy she was working with returned about ten minutes later, carrying a wireless telephone.

"I figured you might wanna eavesdrop," he announced. "I borrowed Flack's phone."

"Lemme guess, he knows nothing of it?"

"He won't mind." Danny hit a button to activate the loudspeaker, so Aiden could follow the conversation. He dialed a number and waited for someone to pick up.

Finally there was a click in the line and a woman answered. "Steinbeck High, Darlene Phillips speaking."

"Good morning, Darlene Phillips," Danny said charmingly. "This is Danny Messer, NYPD Crime Lab. I was wondering if you could help us with an investigation?"

"NYPD? What happened?"

"Nothing that directly concerns your school," Danny assured her quickly. "But it's possible that one or more of your former students are involved in something we're currently working on."

"So...?"

"I see, you're not the kind of person to waste much time," Danny said, casting a look of mock desperation at Aiden, who gave him the thumbs-up. "I won't bother you any longer with my useless attempts at being charming."

Finally, he earned the laugh he'd been aiming at all the time. "Young man, you _are _charming," Darlene Phillips assured him, her voice suffused with amusement. "But since I'm a sixty-year-old married African-American woman who's had five children, your charms don't work with me. Why don't you just tell me what you need and I'll see if I can help you?"

"Oh." Danny blushed a little. "No offense meant, ma'am. Uhm, would you be so kind as to send us a list of all students who graduated in 1999 from Steinbeck High? And would you please add all those over 16 who attended the school in '99, no matter in what year they were, and those who left the school after that school year, maybe due to a change of residence or something like that."

"No problem, young man," Darlene assured him. "Hang on." She went silent for a moment, and Aiden and Danny heard her clatter on a computer keyboard. "Done," she announced two minutes later. "Where shall I send it?"

"Wow, that was really fast." Danny told her the e-mail address, thanked her again and hung up. Aiden had already booted the computer and opened the e-mail program. They waited for the _You've got mail _announcement, downloaded the attached list and printed it out. Then they bowed over the list and scanned the names.

"Seventy-two," Danny sighed. "Why does Steinbeck High have to be so popular?"

"Come on, it could be worse." Aiden took a pen. "Look, we can concentrate on the boys. Boys are more likely to steal a car for such a stupid reason... ouch!" Danny had pinched her. She glowered at him and then returned to the list. "And I'd suggest we have a look at those who turned eighteen in June or July."

"Why?"

"Because they seemed to know at least something about how to differentiate between crimes," Aiden explained. "They always returned the cars. Maybe they also figured that they'd be treated differently as minors if they got caught. After all, the thefts stopped one month _before _graduation. What if our thief turned eighteen in June?"

"Now you're the genius."

"Common sense, Danny. You should look it up."

"Let's report to Mac," Danny suggested abruptly. "Let's talk it over with him."

Mac was in his office when Aiden and Danny knocked on his door. He calmly listened to what Danny had discovered and smiled in appreciation when they had ended.

"Good work, you two," he said. "Can I see that list?"

Danny handed it to him, and Mac scanned the names. Danny saw him frown momentarily and asked, "Recognized something?"

Mac looked up. "Patricia Quinlan... I know the name. I heard it recently."

"Patricia Quinlan?" Aiden and Danny exchanged a glance. They had concentrated on the boys when they'd gone through the list, so they had probably overlooked that.

"Isn't that the woman who went missing yesterday?" Aiden asked. "The interpreter?"

Mac startled them both by slamming his palm down on the table. "That's it," he said. "I knew I heard the name before." He frowned at the list. "I wonder..." he murmured thoughtfully.

Danny and Aiden exchanged another glance, then they left Mac with the list alone and retreated from his office.

**xxx**

_09:24 am. 24 hours 24 minutes missing._

Mac debated for a while, racking his brains whether this was a simple coincidence. But his experience and his intuition as a criminalist told him otherwise, and so he eventually picked up the phone and dialed the number of the FBI.

"Jack Malone, please."

"Jack Malone is not here at the moment," the operator informed him.

"Oh. Okay, then... Agent Taylor, please."

Soft music was played while the operator tried to reach Danny Taylor. Then another click, and the young agent's voice resounded from the receiver.

"Detective Namesake. Nice to hear from you again."

"Good morning, Agent Taylor."

"What's up?"

"Are you working on the Patricia Quinlan case?" Mac asked.

"Yes." Danny Taylor's voice lost the joking tone and became professional. "Do you have something for us?"

"Maybe." Mac briefly explained about the car thefts. "And then we found out that Patricia Quinlan was in the same year as the potential thieves," he finished. "It might not be important at all, but it might as well be relevant. Isn't it interesting that both our cases are somehow connected to Steinbeck High? That a woman disappears who probably knows our killer?"

"You think there might be a connection?" Agent Taylor asked.

"I wouldn't rule it out," Mac answered.

"Thank you, Detective." Agent Taylor wrote something down; Mac could hear the pen scratching over paper. "We'll include your information in our investigation."

"One thing more," Mac said. "If our cases are really connected, it might be a good idea to work closer together. Exchange information, coordinate our work."

"Of course," Agent Taylor agreed. "Listen, how about a meeting? Your team and my colleagues and me?"

"Sounds reasonable." Mac consulted his timetable. "This afternoon... three o'clock in our headquarters, can you make it?"

"Sure we can." More pen-scratching on Agent Taylor's part. "There'll be three of us - Agent Spade, Agent Fitzgerald and myself."

"Detectives Messer and Burn are working on our case. I'll attend, too. So there'll be six of us altogether." Mac made a note. "Then it's settled, Agent Taylor."

"It is, Detective Taylor."

They said goodbye and hung up. Mac felt new confidence rise in him. Finally they seemed to get somewhere in their investigation. It was about time.

**xxx**

_10:00 am. 25 hours missing._

Danny had not protested when Sam had refused to do the second canvassing together with Martin. Martin had not shown any reaction, but Danny was pretty sure that he was secretly hurt. Although Danny did not know the exact reason and circumstances why they'd broken up, it was clear to him that something had to be done about them. The tension between Sam and Martin was still there and impaired their work.

_Later_, Danny told himself. _First things first, let's find Patricia Quinlan. _But he decided to talk to Jack about the situation.

Later.

So he had conceded, and therefore it was again him and Sam who knocked on Cordelia Downs's door.

Cordelia did not seem surprised when they entered her office.

"Have you heard from Tricia?" she asked.

"We haven't found her yet," Sam said, "but we're following several leads. I'm confident that it won't be long until we've found her."

"So what can I do for you?"

"We have a question." Danny sat down in one of the comfortable chairs that were scattered over Cordelia's office.

"Miss Downs, you and Patricia went to Steinbeck High," Sam began. "Our investigations have suggested that Patricia's disappearance might be connected to another case that's currently occupying the minds of NYPD officers. That case is also linked to your high school. Perhaps one case is rooted in the other."

Cordelia frowned. "You think the reason for Tricia's disappearance lies in her past at Steinbeck High?" she asked. "That's weird..."

"Why?" Sam looked up, interested.

"I told you that Tricia seemed distracted when we talked on the phone, remember?" Cordelia explained. "But the thing is, we talked about school and the past and all that. I had the impression that something was bothering Tricia, and now when I think about it, it might well be that it had to do with school. She seemed unusually thoughtful when she talked about the past."

"Cordelia, this is important." Sam leaned forward. "Do you know anything about a series of car thefts in the vicinity of your high school? Between '98 and '99? Or do you think Tricia knew anything about it?"

"Car thefts?" Cordelia's confusion seemed genuine. "I don't think so. Why is it important?"

"We suspect that a group of students, probably from your year, committed these thefts," Danny explained.

"So you think that Tricia knew something about it... and now, six years later, someone kidnaps her? That doesn't make any sense, does it?"

Sam had to suppress a smile. Cordelia Downs wasn't stupid.

"That makes perfect sense," she pointed out, "because the situation changed in the meantime. It's no longer a harmless case of car theft. We're talking homicide now."

"What?"

"Look, Miss Downs," Danny chimed in, "we can't tell you all the details of the investigation now. Are you sure that you never heard anything about a stolen car? Did Tricia ever hint at something you could not quite understand? Has she ever mentioned a Corvette, in particular?"

"A Corvette?" Cordelia visibly racked her brains. "I can't..." She grinned suddenly. "I remember she once mentioned a Corvette, but I doubt very much that it's relevant."

"Leave it to us to decide what's relevant and what isn't," Sam stated.

"It's nothing," Cordelia assured her. "You said Corvette, and that made me think of one day when Tricia and I went down the street, and a car sped by, and Tricia said, _That was a Corvette, right? I finally learned to tell a Corvette from a Lamborghini._ And then we laughed, and I said something along the lines of, _Congratulations, what an achievement_, and that's all." She shrugged. "I can't see how that should help you find her. I only remember the remark because Tricia's expression was so funny when she said that. As if it was some big secret I wasn't in on."

"Interesting... that might be more relevant than you thought. So Tricia wasn't interested in cars in general?"

"Not at all," Cordelia said. "She didn't exaggerate, she was really unable to tell a Corvette from a Lamborghini. And the same goes for other cars. I suppose that's why she even mentioned the Corvette at all."

Sam made a note.

"We have another question," Danny said. "We talked to Terry Williams, but he says he hasn't seen Tricia for two years or so. So we still don't know who that visitor was. We asked Ms. Sciorra to help us draw up a phantom picture. Would you please have a look at it and tell us if you recognize the man?"

"Of course." Cordelia sat up straight. "After all, it's pretty shameful for me not to know what handsome men are paying visits to my best friend. She never said a word."

Danny pulled the printout out of his briefcase, unfolded it and handed it to Cordelia. She took only one look at it and gasped in astonishment.

"Unbelievable!"

Sam and Danny exchanged a glance. Quelling her excitement, Sam looked at Cordelia.

"Do you know who this is?"

Cordelia was still staring at the picture. "I don't understand this," she murmured. Then she looked up to meet Sam's eyes.

"I could be wrong," she said, "but I don't think so. The similarity is striking. I haven't seen him since our last day in high school, and neither has Tricia, as far as I know, but I'm pretty sure that it's him. Agent Spade, do you remember the story I told you yesterday? About that crush of Tricia's? She helped him out of something and he thanked her by talking to her?" She stabbed a finger at the black and white drawing of a young, good-looking man with chiseled features, dark blond curly hair, a straight nose and a confident smile. "That's him. Morris Greek."

**xxx**

_03:00 pm. 30 hours missing._

Mac looked around in the conference room. What a motley crew they were - three detectives, three agents. Two women, four men.

The FBI agents had arrived on time. Danny Taylor, with whom he had already spoken on the phone, turned out to be a dark-haired Hispanic who seemed ten years younger when he smiled. His companions were Martin Fitzgerald - young, good-looking, with a friendly face and professional manner - and Samantha Spade, a beautiful blonde with large brown eyes. She seemed intelligent and concentrated on the case but did not talk much and hardly ever smiled. She was friendly, though, and Mac supposed that she was perhaps having a bad day. And besides, the first impression was not always correct. What might the agents think of himself and his colleagues? Would they judge them from their looks or wait until after the meeting to form their opinion?

It would be interesting to know, Mac mused. Which impression would they derive from Aiden's attractiveness, Danny's rough-and-readiness, his own melancholy? Would they automatically assume that Aiden was arrogant, Danny insubordinate and he, Mac, oblivious?

Mac forced the thoughts back. They were here to coordinate their respective investigations, not to judge books by their covers.

"Shall we start?" he asked the others, and everyone nodded.

Mac cleared his throat. "Welcome to the CSI headquarters," he said. "I'm Mac Taylor. These are my colleagues Aiden Burn and Danny Messer. They're investigating Garrett Chase's death. It was Danny Messer who found the connection to Steinbeck High."

The FBI agents exchanged a glance, then Agent Taylor spoke. "Another namesake," he said with a grin at Danny. "I hope we don't get all muddled up when both _Danny _and _Taylor _refer to you guys as well as to me. But all kidding aside," he added, becoming serious. "We're here to help each other. So let's recapitulate everything from the beginning, shall we? The NYPD found a connection between our cases. The common denominator is called John Steinbeck High School. The prime suspects in Detective Taylor's case probably went to school there, and so did our victim, Patricia Quinlan."

"In order to understand the connection, we have to go back six years," Mac took over the narration. "We have a series of car thefts in the vicinity of Steinbeck High between January 1998 and June 1999. We have a dead man who was run over by a Corvette that was stolen in that very area and time frame. Is it safe to assume that the car thief killed Mr. Chase and that the thief probably went to Steinbeck High?"

Everyone nodded.

"We have a list of all boys between sixteen and eighteen who attended Steinbeck High in the given time frame. We assume that the thief - or the thiefs, if it's a gang - turned eighteen in '99, probably in June, and then stopped stealing cars. We suppose that Mr. Chase's death was an accident and the driver was afraid of the consequences, so he buried the man and got away with it. Until now." Mac's expression hardened, and he stopped talking.

The FBI Agents exchanged another glance, but Mac noticed that Fitzgerald and Spade avoided each other's eyes whenever possible. All communication worked via Agent Taylor. Nevertheless, it was Agent Spade who started talking now.

"We have a 23-year-old interpreter who disappeared yesterday morning," she reported, deliberately echoing Mac's syntax. "She was last seen the evening before, but evidence suggests she must have been in her apartment until at least seven thirty in the morning. Her best friend and her neighbor both confirm that something seemed to have troubled her for several days. She did not tell anyone what was on her mind, but the friend supposes it could have something to do with the past. We know that her troubles seem to have started three days ago - which is when CNN first reported about the hit-and-run - and that she re-read an article in the _NY Times _of October 16. Danny checked and found out that on that day there was a long report about the case in the paper. We assume that it was the case of Garrett Chase and its circumstances that troubled her so much and that her kidnapping has to do with it. Her disappearance so shortly after the fatal consequences of one of the car thefts have been uncovered plus the high school connection would be too much of a coincidence."

Again, everyone nodded.

"And now listen, please," Agent Taylor continued, looking around at everyone. "It's possible that we have a suspect. Three days before her disappearance, someone visited Patricia Quinlan, and this visit seemed to upset her pretty much. This morning, the phantom picture was identified. The visitor was a man called Morris Greek." He passed a picture of the real Morris around and smiled knowingly when Aiden whistled admiringly through her teeth at the sight of his handsome face. "A journalist, twenty-three, not married. He was in the class of '99 at Steinbeck High, just like Patricia. And here's the interesting thing: Miss Downs, Patricia's friend, told us that Patricia was in love with him six years ago, and that something about them changed in the past few months of school. Suddenly Morris talked to Patricia and treated her better. Miss Downs doesn't know what exactly happened; Patricia only told her she'd _helped him out of a tricky situation_. Miss Downs assumed that she helped him pass the Spanish exams, but what if it was something else entirely?"

Aiden drummed her fingertips on her knee. "Such as covering up for him?" she said. "You think that this Morris guy stole the cars, Patricia saw him, and he promised her that for her silence he'd boost her popularity?"

Agent Taylor nodded. "Miss Downs also suggested that this kind of comraderie that developed between Patricia and Morris was a kind of reward for Patricia's help. Actually, she used almost the same words as you just did, Detective Burn."

"I went to high school, too," Aiden retorted and caught a knowing wink from Agent Spade. "So we have Morris Greek, the car thief, and Patricia Quinlan, the witness," Danny summed up. "What happened next?"

Agent Fitzgerald now spoke. "Patricia Quinlan sees the report about Garrett Chase, hears about the Corvette and puts two and two together. She understands that she covered up for a killer, not just an unimportant thief. And he probably thinks the same, that's why he turns up at her door. From then on, we can only take guesses what happened. She tries to convince him to go to the police, or she tries to blackmail him."

"We tend to believe assumption number one," Agent Taylor chimed in. "Patricia Quinlan does not seem the kind of person who'd blackmail someone."

"And then?" Danny asked. "She refuses to keep silent any longer and he kidnaps her?"

"Something like that," the other Danny - Agent Taylor - agreed. "And that's why I suggest we talk to Morris Greek as soon as possible."

"Good idea," said Mac, his voice holding a faint trace of irony. "Who?"

Agent Taylor smirked. "This Morris Greek seems to be a very handsome man," he said. "I daresay he'll be more likely to talk to a woman. He's probably the kind of man who's apt to underestimate a woman. So I suggest that we send the ladies." He looked from Agent Spade to Aiden. "Two beautiful women knocking at his door? He's bound to talk to them! And if we're lucky, he'll be so distracted by their ravishing looks that he'll forget to think about their intelligence."

Aiden smirked and ironically bowed to Agent Taylor. "Thank you very much for the compliment, Agent," she said and caught another smile from Agent Spade. She also noticed that Agent Fitzgerald did not seem pleased at all with Taylor's suggestion but refrained from uttering his protest aloud. "And if I may make a suggestion," Aiden continued, "I'd say you should have another look at that list and check on everyone who turned eighteen in June '99. After all, Morris Greek did not come of age until November. Perhaps there was someone else involved in the car thefts - if our theory is correct that the thefts stopped because the thief turned eighteen."

"That's reasonable," Danny pointed out. "It would also explain why there were days when three cars were stolen at once."

"I'll take care of that," Agent Fitzgerald offered. "Would you like to help me, Detective Messer?"

Danny nodded. Agent Taylor said he'd join them as well. "No matter where I go here, there's always some namesake," he commented, and Danny grinned. Despite the fact that he normally refused to consult the FBI, and only very reluctantly cooperated if they _were _consulted after all, he liked the lively, uncomplicated agent. And Fitzgerald seemed to be alright, too.

Aiden and Spade had already gathered together, ready to go and interrogate Morris Greek, the alleged car thief and possible kidnapper, if not murderer, of Tricia Quinlan. Danny did not like the idea of Aiden going there, but he tried to quell the feeling. Aiden was a big girl; she could look after herself. And she was certainly able to deal with a twenty-three-year-old suspect, no matter how charming and handsome he was. Beside, she was not alone. And Samantha Spade seemed no less able to deal with Greek than Aiden.

He really should not worry about his colleague. Why now, anyway? They had worked together for years; this was not the first time that Aiden went to question a suspect. He just did not like the idea that he was not with her.

When Danny looked up, he saw his own concern reflected in Martin Fitzgerald's eyes, and suddenly he understood.

**xxx**

_04:30 pm. 31 hours 30 minutes missing. _

"May I ask you something, Samantha?"

"Sure." Sam did not avert her eyes from the street but nodded. She and Aiden Burn had agreed to continue on first-name terms, as it made conversation easier for both of them. Besides, she liked Aiden Burn. She seemed a competent and straightforward detective and a confident, outspoken woman who did not shy away from confrontation. Probably a little bit stubborn, too, but always striving for justice.

Not too different from herself.

Sam quickly wondered what Aiden might want to ask her. Something about the case, probably. Or about Danny and Martin. Therefore she was startled when Aiden blurted her question:

"Are you a natural blonde?"

Now Sam _did _look away from the street and cast Aiden a short, amused glance.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I was just wondering," Aiden replied. "No offense meant," she added. "I just noticed that your eyes are brown. That's rather unusual for blondes, is it?"

"It is," Sam confirmed with a smirk.

Oh yes, Aiden Burn was indeed an outspoken person.

"So?" Aiden insisted.

"Is it important whether my hair is dyed or not?" Sam answered. "The main thing is that it looks OK, isn't it?"

Aiden smiled. "You've got a point there. And it looks more than OK on you."

Sam acknowledged the compliment with a smile.

"What do you think, does Morris Greek prefer blondes or brunettes?" Aiden mused. "I'm just asking so we can decide who's the good cop and who's the bad one."

"What, you wanna play good cop bad cop on Greek? I thought we were supposed to enchant him with our feminine wiles."

"Ah..." Aiden grinned. "That's not really my thing."

"I don't like it, either," Sam admitted, "but it's probably the best way to handle him - if he really hasn't changed since high school."

"Doubtful."

"Well, he lives with his girlfriend, Giorgia Carentini," Sam informed Aiden, returning to the topic of Greek's visual preferences. "She's a model, a pretty famous one. And if I remember correctly from the last Fashion Week reports in _Vogue_, she's a dark type but with peroxide hair. Certainly not a natural blonde," she added with a knowing wink. "Her strategy is contradiction. Before she entered into the contract with DKNY, she was modeling for a _Contradiction_ campaign by CK. Seems she liked the image and kept it. You know the principle, dark skin and blonde hair; mini skirt and fur boots... everything that shouldn't match."

"Sounds awful." Aiden grimaced.

"It is," Sam agreed. "Let's hope she isn't home when we arrive."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed," Aiden promised. "I'm not very keen to handle a complacent model, either. Perhaps he'll be more apt to talk if his girlfriend isn't lurking around."

Sam caught a suggestive tone in Aiden's voice and looked at the detective, interested. "You think he did something at Tricia's place he doesn't want his girlfriend to know?"

"Perhaps," Aiden said. "If I were a man - which I'm not, thank God - and the last image of Tricia Quinlan in my head was that of a slightly plump, shy girl of seventeen years, I'd be more than surprised to see what she is like now. I mean, she's a real beauty now, isn't she?"

"She looks great," Sam agreed. Then she bit her lower lip, thinking hard. "Let's keep that in mind, Aiden, shall we?" she suggested. "We can always bring it up if we have the impression that Greek isn't telling the truth."

"Good plan." Aiden leaned back in her seat, and Sam turned around the last corner and pulled over in front of a large house.

"One thing more," Sam said while Aiden unfastened her seat belt. "I think we should play with him a little. Let's just concentrate on Tricia and not mention the car thefts or Mr. Chase. It will probably be the best strategy to let him underestimate us, perhaps imply we're looking for something in _her_ past, not his. I'll eat my hat if he doesn't congratulate himself after we've left and goes straight to Tricia - if it was him who kidnapped her."

"Good plan," Aiden repeated and grinned. "I only see one problem, Sam - you don't wear a hat."

"I wouldn't have to eat it, anyway," Sam replied with a smirk. "It's him, trust me."

"I agree."

They got out of the car and entered the house. Giorgia Carentini owned a large penthouse apartment with its own elevator, and Sam and Aiden had to register downstairs at the concierge's office. Then they received a code for the elevator and went up to the top floor.

The elevator doors opened into another corridor with two doors - one leading into Giorgia Carentini's penthouse, the other into another small apartment that also belonged to Giorgia. She probably used it as a guest apartment, Sam assumed.

Aiden Burn did not hesitate. Nothing in her conduct implied that she was in any way impressed by the luxury of Giorgia's humble abode. She simply clenched her hand into a fist and knocked on the door.

They waited for about fifteen seconds, then Aiden knocked again.

"NYPD," she shouted. "Open the door."

There was a clatter and a muffled curse beyond the door, then a man called, "Hold on a sec!" More clatter, and then finally the door was opened.

Sam's first impression of Morris Greek was that he looked even better in persona than on the picture. It appeared as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, for his hair was damp and smelled of shampoo, and he was wearing a dark blue bathrobe that was not completely tied, revealing part of his muscular upper body.

But she also understood what Cordelia Downs had meant when she spoke of that arrogance. Morris Greek was a man who knew very well what impression he made on women. And when a charming smile appeared on his face, Sam knew that he would try everything to make a good impression on herself and Aiden Burn, too.

She had to suppress a smirk.

"Police?" he asked, his perfect teeth glistening when he smiled again. "What would the police possibly want to ask Giorgia Carentini? She's not here, anyway."

"We're not looking for Giorgia Carentini," Aiden answered. "Morris Greek?"

"I'm flattered," he replied. "Two charming ladies asking for me? What can I do for you, officers?"

"I'm Detective Burn, this is Agent Spade, FBI," Aiden cut across him. "May we come in?"

"My home is your home," Morris said with a rather pompous gesture of invitation. Then he grinned. "I mean, Giorgia's home is your home," he corrected, infusing his voice with a slightly sheepish tone, as if he'd just committed a harmless faux pas. This was part of his charms, Sam realized. By admitting mistakes and laughing at himself, he successfully created the impression of an uncomplicated person with a good sense of humor.

Fortunately, she and Aiden knew better.

They followed Morris through a short corridor that opened into a large, pentagonal living room that was lavishly furnished in leather, chrome and glass.

"Very stylish," Sam commented.

"Giorgia sometimes gets furniture for free," Morris said with a conspiratorial tone to his voice. "She did all of this. My sense of aesthetics is a little underdeveloped, I fear."

He pointed at the black leather couch that looked as if it was worth a three-digit sum even with a seventy percent discount. Sam and Aiden sat down and accepted the coffee Morris offered them. It turned out to be flavored with some aroma - almond, Sam guessed - and tasted very expensive. Morris excused himself, went into the room next door and emerged five minutes later, dressed in blue jeans and a Hugo Boss shirt. He slid into an armchair opposite the ladies, took a deep gulp of coffee, and then openly smiled at Sam and Aiden.

"So, what can I do for you?"

"Patricia Quinlan." Aiden's eyes were half shut, but Sam knew she looked at him very closely.

A muscle twitched in Morris's face, but he was very controlled otherwise. "Patricia Quinlan?" he repeated, frowning. "I don't think I... oh!" He looked up. "I went to school with one Patricia Quinlan. You mean her? Why come to me?"

"She disappeared yesterday," Aiden said. "We're asking everyone who knows her whether they can tell us anything that might clear up the matter."

"But I can't tell you anything; I haven't seen her since high school." Morris glanced from Aiden to Sam in what seemed like genuine confusion. His acting was good, Sam had to admit. She would have believed him, had she not known that he'd visited Tricia four days ago.

Aiden looked at Sam in a perfect imitation of Morris's fake confusion. "Oh, really?" she said. "I'm sorry, then we must have gotten the wrong information. Look, we talked to a few people already, and they all said that you and Patricia got along quite well in high school. Someone even suspected you were a couple. So we thought you might have remained in touch after high school was over."

Morris laughed. "A couple? Tricia Quinlan and I? Not at all, Detective. She wouldn't have been my type."

_Thought so, _Sam thought. _Only sandpaper thin models for you, Greek, am I right?_

"But how was that impression created, then?" she asked aloud. "We've been told you and Patricia spent a lot of time together. And you danced together at the prom."

Morris reached into his pocket and got a package of cigarettes. He offered it to Sam and Aiden, but they declined. He carefully lit a Marlboro Light and smoked quietly for a few moments.

"I don't know if you know what Patricia Quinlan was like in high school," he said finally. "She wasn't what the popular girls would have accepted in their peer group. I, on the other hand, _was _popular." He flashed a smile. "I don't want to show off, don't get me wrong," he said. "But I suppose you know the way teenagers' minds work. There's no way to reconcile the popular ones and the unpopular ones.

"Now I knew that Tricia had a crush on me. It would've been hard not to notice; she kept stealing glances at me and chose the same courses as I did, that sort of stuff. And, heck, somehow I felt sorry for her. And she was very good in Spanish, which I wasn't, so I asked her to help me out with the grammar. That's why we spent some time together even out of school. Though I don't understand how anyone could mistake us for a couple," he added with a frown. "As for the prom - it's true, I asked her for a dance. My way of saying thank you. I think I made her very happy."

He leaned back and looked from Aiden to Sam as if he was waiting for applause.

_How unselfish and generous of you, _Sam thought sarcastically. _You really think we're gonna believe that heart-warming tale of the good-hearted popular jock who pities the girl who has a crush on him? Knowing that he'll never love her, he grants her one last dance to make her happy? Oh, come on! You surely could do better than that. _She would have loved to say it out loud, but she refrained.

"But you haven't seen her since then?" Aiden asked again.

Morris shook his head, although a glint of uncertainty showed in his eyes. He had noticed the change of tone in Aiden's voice.

"Then please explain to me why Patricia Quinlan's neighbor saw you visit her four days ago." She produced the phantom picture they'd drawn up and put it on the table. "This is you, isn't it?" The false naïveté had vanished from her voice.

Morris looked at the picture and slowly, his face reddened.

"Cordelia Downs identified you, too," Sam added.

Morris Greek's shoulders slumped. He looked like the personification of guilty conscience.

"OK, you got me," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "I was there."

_Oh yes, we got you, _Sam commented secretly. _But in more ways than you think. You think we only want to know about Tricia. You have no idea that we have more in store than that. But we're gonna play the ace in the next round._

"Tell us," Aiden commanded curtly.

"Well..." Morris squirmed. "Listen, can we keep that between us? At least don't tell Giorgia. I don't want her to know..."

"We'll decide that afterwards." Aiden leaned back and crossed her legs. "So you _were _at Tricia's place."

"Yes." Morris lit another cigarette. "I'm a journalist, as you may know," he began, "and I had to interview someone who lived in that house. When the interview was done, I noticed the name _Patricia Quinlan _on one of the doors on the same floor. It was really a spur-of-the-moment decision. I thought it might be her, so I knocked. And it was indeed her." The look in his eyes was something between admiration and surprise. "She looked great. I mean, really ravishing. We talked a little, had a drink, waxed nostalgic. It was really nice to see her again. But I have no idea what she did afterwards. I have nothing to do with the fact that she disappeared."

"You only had a drink with her and waxed nostalgic?" Sam asked with a hint of mockery in her voice. "Come on, you said she looked ravishing. Maybe you remembered that she once had a crush on you and thought that this time her love might not have to go unrequited..."

"And maybe she refused you, and you became angry," Aiden chimed in. "Everyone would understand that. What happened, Morris? Did you hit her over the head and found out that you'd gotten a little carried away?"

Morris looked from one to the other, complete perplexion in his eyes. "No!" he protested. "She didn't refuse me... at least not immediately," he added.

"So?" Aiden raised one eyebrow.

"Alright, alright." Morris raised both hands in resignation. "I'll tell you how it was. We really talked a while and took a few beers, and we really waxed nostalgic. But then, well... something evolved. We kissed, making out a little, but then it was too much for her and she put the brakes on. But I didn't hurt her or anything, I swear! When I left, she was alright! Really!"

Aiden and Sam exchanged a glance. They knew very well that Tricia Quinlan had been alive and well after Morris's visit, but by provoking him like that, they'd finally learned what was likely the truth about that night. Apart from the story about the car and Mr. Chase.

"I haven't seen or talked to her since then," Morris said. "It can't be relevant in your investigation. So do you think you could keep the information to yourselves? I really don't want it to be published. Giorgia doesn't have to know, and it would damage her image if the yellow press caught a whiff of that..."

"We'll see." Aiden looked at Sam, and Sam nodded. They rose from the couch and shook Morris's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Greek, that's all for now."

"Anytime, ladies." Morris Greek's confident smile had returned to him. "Sorry I couldn't be of any more help. Do tell me when you've found Tricia, will you?"

Sam nodded, and she and Aiden left the penthouse. Sam resisted the urge to look back at Morris, but she was convinced that, if she had, she would have seen an arrogant smile of relief spread over his face, happy that he'd fooled the two detectives who'd played their ace - the phantom picture - and still lost the game.

How could he know, after all, that Sam and Aiden had another ace up their sleeve?

They were hardly out of the house when Aiden's cell phone started to ring.

With an apologetic glance at Sam, Aiden answered. "It's Mac," she informed her before she turned away, pacing up and down. Sam only heard Aiden's contributions to the conversation, which consisted mostly of "Uh-huh" and "really?" and "thought so," until Aiden stopped dead. "Interesting," she said. "Who's taking care of that?... Uh-huh." She resumed her former vocabulary until she snapped the phone shut and turned back to Sam.

"Patricia Quinlan called Morris Greek on the morning of the eighteenth at seven a.m.," she informed her. "Two hours later, she was gone. The conversation lasted only a few minutes. So much for Morris's statement that he hasn't talked to her since the fifteenth."

"That phone call must have been the last straw for Morris," Sam said thoughtfully. "She probably told him he'd had enough time to think about things, and that she'd go to the police now if he didn't. And Morris panicked."

"That must have been what happened," Aiden agreed. "Mac also just told me that one of the students who turned eighteen in June '99 was Brad Johnson - according to Cordelia Downs, one of Morris Greek's best friends."

"So you think Morris and Brad both stole cars."

"Oh yes." Aiden grinned. "I'm completely convinced of that. You see, Brad Johnson is currently serving a prison sentence, and now guess what he was convicted of..."

"Not car theft?"

"Exactly. Mac said this was the third time they caught him. The first two times he got away with six and eight months on probation, respectively, but this time they really locked him up."

"So he's got an alibi," Sam commented wryly.

"Yep. But one of your colleagues went to ask him some questions, anyhow. Martin Fitzgerald, I think."

Sam could not help wincing a tiny little bit at Martin's name, but she was pretty sure that Aiden had not noticed.

"So we're gonna stay here until Morris leaves the house," Aiden continued and grinned at Sam. "And if he doesn't, we'll get you a nice cheap hat for your lunch."


	8. TALK AND ACTION

**CHAPTER SEVEN - Talk and Action**

_October 19, 2005. The street before Giorgia Carentini's penthouse. NYC. 05:00 pm. _

_32 hours missing._

Aiden longed for a coffee. All that joking about Sam Spade eating her hat suddenly did not seem funny anymore to her. Twenty minutes had passed, and Morris Greek had not left the penthouse. At least not through the front door. She was already racking her brains, wondering whether they had made a mistake somewhere.

"Our theory is flawless, Aiden," Sam said.

Aiden winced. "Am I that transparent?" she asked.

"It wasn't hard to guess what's on your mind," Sam replied. "I've been thinking the same thing: _What the heck is keeping him upstairs!_"

Aiden laughed. "That's pretty much what I thought," she admitted.

"He'll appear," Sam assured her. Then she grimaced. "For the sake of my stomach, he should," she added.

Aiden's reply got stuck in her throat. She had just spotted Morris Greek leaving the house.

"There he is!"

Morris did not look left or right. He looked quite in a hurry. He was carrying a bag that seemed stuffed full with something and headed for a row of parked cars on the opposite side of the street.

"Suspect leaves the house," Aiden radioed to HQ. She craned her neck to get a glimpse at the car Morris was just unlocking. "He gets into a light blue Chevy Malibu. License plate reads... uhm..."

Sam helped her out, and Aiden nodded thank you.

"Agent Spade and Detective Burn take up pursuit," she finished and put the radio back into its cradle. Then she started the engine and followed Morris's Chevrolet.

It seemed an endless odyssey through a maze of small streets, and Aiden had to admit a few times that they passed through areas where she'd never been before. But Sam assured her that she felt the same.

When Morris turned another corner and pulled over in the parking lot of a cheap motel somewhere in Queens, Aiden heaved a sigh of relief. "Are you sure we haven't been going round in circles for the last thirty minutes?" she remarked, expecting no answer from Sam.

"_Gates Motel_," Sam read aloud. "What do you think, why did they choose that name? Because it sounds modern, as in Bill Gates?"

"I suppose it was rather 'cause it rhymes with _Bates Motel_," Aiden said wryly. "But I can tell you one thing, Sam - the owner's name certainly _isn't _Gates."

"I agree."

They watched Morris get out of the car, get his bag and fumble in his pocket for something, probably the key. Then he turned around a corner and was out of sight.

"Oh, cripes," Aiden cursed. "Now we can't see which room he enters."

"Well, then we'll have to settle for the good old method." Sam opened the car door, her gun ready. "Let's canvass the motel."

Aiden joined her, her own gun drawn, although she did not really think they would need them. Morris Greek had not seemed especially violent to her.

Nor very intelligent, for that matter. It was almost an insult that he really seemed to think he'd fooled herself and Sam. But it was also somewhat amusing.

It turned out that they did not have to knock on every single motel room door. Voices of a man and a woman arguing drifted out of the slightly opened window of room # 54. Aiden had to suppress a giggle. Morris Greek was about as talented a kidnapper as Mac would be as a cabaret singer.

She and Sam snuck closer to the window, both with their guns ready despite Aiden's assumption as to their being actually used. But for the time being, they settled for a little eavesdropping. It was their only chance, since they had no conclusive evidence against Morris. Only what they overheard now and Tricia Quinlan's statement would maybe lead to a conviction, so they both were very careful not to make any mistakes.

"We'll listen for a while, then I'll call for backup and we'll storm the room together," she whispered to Sam. "That'll probably scare him out of his pants."

Sam gave her the thumbs-up, and they concentrated on what was spoken inside.

"But it was really an accident!" Morris was saying.

The woman - Tricia - sighed. "We've had this a thousand times before," she answered, sounding exhausted rather than really irritated. "If it was an accident, you won't have to fear anything. You were a minor back then, don't forget that. But it's really stupid of you to keep me captive like that, Morris. That's a _real _crime. You can still release me, and we'll both go to the police and I won't mention to anyone that this ever happened. But if someone finds me here, there'll be no way of concealing what really happened any longer."

"There's always a way, Tricia, if you only keep quiet," Morris retorted. "Come on, you covered for me once, you can't go back on your promise now."

"You said it yourself, back then: this promise does not extend beyond high school. I should have told them years ago, but I had no idea that we were talking about _homicide_!"

"We weren't, Trish!" Aiden heard Morris's footsteps; he was probably pacing up and down.

"We are now." Her voice suddenly dropped down and assumed a warm, pleasant tone that exuded calm and confidence. This must be what she talked like when she was interpreting, Aiden thought. A voice anyone in the audience would love to have in their ear. "Look, Morris, what do you think you could gain by holding me captive here? I'm not gonna give in to your pleas, and what then? You can't keep me locked up here forever, and besides, I suppose that the police are already looking for me."

"The police were at my place this afternoon," Morris answered. "Seems like your neighbor saw me entering your apartment the other day, but they believed me when I said I hadn't seen you since the fifteenth."

"So maybe they believed you, but, Morris, don't you see you're not gonna get anywhere with this? Look, I'm trying to help you. If you don't give yourself over to the police, then it will haunt you for the rest of your life. And if you don't release me, what are you gonna do instead? You're already into it up to your ears. I can still help you!"

"Yeah, sure, that's what you said on the phone. And your generous help consists of what, getting me jailed!"

"No, Morris! It consists of keeping you _out _out jail - by not telling them that you kidnapped me!"

"Why should I believe you? You covered for me once and now you're about to tell on me. Why shouldn't you do it again?"

"Because this time, no one got hurt. Not even I. For a kidnapper, you've been pretty generous."

"I don't want to hurt you, Trish. Really. I never wanted to hurt anyone. But this guy just walked in front of my car, and there was no way I could get around him, or else we would both have kicked the bucket."

"Then you should tell that..."

"But, Trish, when I said I don't _want _to hurt you, I didn't necessarily mean that I _would _not hurt you." Morris's voice had assumed a threatening tone, and Sam and Aiden exchanged a glance.

"I'm calling for backup," Aiden whispered, and when Sam nodded, she turned on her heel and hurried back to the car.

**xxx**

_05:59 pm. 32 hours 59 minutes missing._

Sam's hands were slippery, and she fastened her grip on her gun. She was still hoping she wouldn't have to use it, but she was ready to intervene as soon as anything implied that Morris Greek was getting violent.

To her surprise, Tricia laughed silently.

"Morris Greek," she said, and there was something in her voice that Sam could not quite place. It almost sounded like a sort of affectionate mockery. "I know you too well. You won't hurt me. You're self-centered and arrogant, and you can be quite ruthless - I guess that as a journalist you have to - but you're not cruel; you're not even particularly aggressive. You're all talk and no action, and I'm not saying this to provoke you. You know it's true."

There was no answer for quite some time, and then something shattered in the room, and Sam winced. But Tricia resumed talking, unperturbed.

"There you go, Morris. You've always been like that. You'd've loved to slap my face just now, but you shattered that plate instead. Why? Because you don't have it in you."

"Are you telling me I'm a coward?"

"I never said that."

"Tricia, for the sake of the old times..."

"What old times, Morris?" Her voice suddenly sounded sharp. "There were no old times for us, Morris. Only a strange agreement between two very different teenagers."

"For the sake of what you once felt for me..."

"You said it, Morris. What I _once felt _for you. I don't have any feelings for you now. What little remnants were still there, they vanished a few days ago."

"You were in love with me back then."

"I was." It was a simple statement of fact. "That's partly why I agreed to keep your secret. And that's why I really was content with your way of saying thank you. But now I don't really know how I could be. All you did was grant me little insights of how it might have been. It was no big deal for you, but I suppose you really felt as if you were doing something completely unselfish. My benefactor! I don't deny that you really helped me over the past few months, but you had ulterior motives."

"We had an agreement."

"And I didn't break my promise."

Sam's thoughts began to drift. Invariably, she ended up thinking of Martin. She hated herself for it, knowing that she was to blame for the end of the relationship, but the sharp pang of pain that went through her insides told her all too clearly that she was far from over him. For the umpteenth time, she wondered what might have been...

He still had feelings for her, of that she was pretty sure, and although she tried to deny it, her own feelings for him were also still pretty strong. It was solely due to her pride and stubbornness that things didn't work out between them.

_Look what love can do, _she thought sarcastically. _It made a young girl help conceal a crime, and now it even got her kidnapped._

Unrequited _love, _another voice in her head corrected. _What you had wasn't unrequited. Your feelings were reciprocated, and they still are. _

She winced and could barely suppress a little shriek when Aiden suddenly turned up at her side again.

"Did I scare you?" she whispered?

Sam nodded.

"Anything happen?"

Sam shook her head, still too lost in her thoughts to speak. Aiden glanced curiously at her.

"Let's get back to the car and wait for backup," she suggested. "They'll be here any minute. That doesn't sound as if they'll soon stop talking," she added with a gesture at the door of # 54.

They retreated, and Aiden handed Sam a cup of lukewarm coffee from a warming bottle.

They were silent for almost a minute, then Aiden set down her own coffee and looked at Sam.

"What's going on between you and that Fitzgerald guy?" she asked bluntly.

Sam stared at her, speechless for a moment.

"I noticed the tension between you," Aiden continued, almost apologetically. "Look, I dunno what happened, but I can see that he loves you. And you don't seem to hate him, either, if I may say so."

"Of course I don't hate him," Sam said evasively. It gave her the creeps that Aiden Burn had noticed that something was going on. The dark-haired detective had seen them together, true, but only for a few minutes. Either she and Martin were the worst actors in the world, or Aiden was particularly quick-witted. She tended to assume the latter.

"It's none of my business, I know," Aiden went on, "and you don't have to do what I say, but if I may give you some advice - as a sort of neutral counselor - I'd suggest you two get together and talk it over. It's bound to affect your work - negatively, I should add - if you keep whatever it is unresolved between you."

"You're absolutely right, it _is _none of your business." Sam softened the sharpness of the remark with an apologetic smile. "Let's just say, things didn't work out very well."

"Try again," Aiden advised. "He seems worth it."

Sam did not reply. Aiden Burn had no right to interfere in her personal problem, but what she said was true. Completely, absolutely true.

"Maybe he is," she said after a pause. _But maybe I am not._

Aiden rolled her eyes and glances at her watch. "Geez, those guys are never around when you need them," she remarked. "Where's the sense in calling backup if said backup doesn't show up?"

"They will," Sam said, glad that Aiden had changed the topic. But then something occurred to her and she added casually, "You and Danny Messer get along very well, don't you?"

Now it was Aiden's turn to stare at her. "He's my hero," she said cheerily, but Sam detected an undertone in her voice that suggested she was more serious than it sounded.

"Maybe he's also worth a try," Sam remarked.

Aiden Burn did not answer. But Sam knew that she would probably have done so if the backup had not chosen this moment to arrive.

The rest went very fast. They returned to the motel room (Morris and Patricia were still talking), two of the officers kicked the door open, and then they stormed the motel room. They were met by two equally stunned faces - Morris seemed horrified, Tricia relieved.

"Long time no see, Greek," Aiden commented as she snapped the handcuffs shut around his wrists. He was too surprised to put up any resistance.

Sam turned to Tricia Quinlan. She was cuffed to the bedpost with one hand, but a small table with several open bottles of water, a glass and a plate containing an assortment of small sandwiches stood within her reach. The remote control for the TV lay discarded between the sheets. At least Morris Greek had made sure she did not starve or dehydrate.

"Patricia Quinlan?" she asked formally.

The young woman nodded.

"I'm Samantha Spade, FBI. I'll get these cuffs off you; please hold still."

She unlocked the handcuffs and released the interpreter.

Tricia rubbed her wrist. "Thank you, Agent Spade," she said. Then she turned her head towards the bathroom and grimaced. "I'll be back in a minute, and then I'll happily answer all your questions," she said. "But first... I really have to go."


	9. Epilogue: A VERY SUCCESSFUL COOPERATION

**EPILOGUE - A Very Successful Cooperation**

_October 20, 2005. CSI headquarters. NYC. 07:36 pm._

They were once more assembled in the conference room of the CSI headquarters, and Mac had once more assumed the role of narrator. He had just returned from a meeting with the D.A. and was now debriefing the others.

"Morris Greek confessed everything. The car thefts, the hit-and-run, his disposing of the body, and the kidnapping of Patricia Quinlan. At first he insisted he was the only car thief, but when Martin Fitzgerald told him that Brad Johnson had also admitted to the thefts, he changed his story. Looks like he and Johnson had a sort of competition running in high school - who cracks most cars without getting themselves caught. We think that there was someone else involved, but we'll probably never be able to prove that. Greek and Johnson won't breathe a word.

"It was all pretty much the way we'd imagined. Patricia Quinlan saw him one day as he cracked a Corvette, and they made this arrangement. It was really bad luck for Morris Greek that he had to run over a man on exactly that day and with that car.

"When Patricia heard about the body of Mr. Chase, she put two and two together. But Morris wouldn't go to the police, so she finally said she'd do it. And Morris kidnapped her to prevent her from doing so.

"It was no planned abduction. We doubt that Morris had any clear idea of what to do next. All he knew was that he had to keep her from telling on him.

"Patricia insists he wouldn't have killed her, and I tend to believe her. He isn't cold-blooded enough, he was just desperate. He only thought of himself and of his reputation. Patricia also stated that he didn't mistreat her in any way - apart from cuffing her to the bed, of course, but she seems ready to forgive him for that."

"That doesn't sound as if she's completely over him," Martin remarked.

"Patricia Quinlan's feelings are irrelevant," Mac said. "She's given us all the facts, and I didn't have the impression that she was playing anything down. She seemed very rational to me."

"It might still be possible that she's trying to save him as much trouble as she can," Martin retorted. "When you once loved someone, no matter how long ago, you never really get over them. At some point, it can all stir up again, and you remember how much you ideolized that someone, and you're unable to say anything bad about them."

He did not look at Sam while he said that, but everyone in the room knew exactly what he meant, and for a moment there was awkward silence.

"It's frightening what love can do, especially when it's unrequited," Martin added a moment later, and this time he openly looked at Sam, who went stiff for a moment, remembering that she'd had identical thoughts earlier.

Mac cleared his throat. "Anyhow," he continued, "Morris Greek will be charged with kidnapping, concealment of a crime and obstruction of the police. The D.A. is not quite sure yet what to do about Mr. Chase. Technically, Greek should be indicted with manslaughter, but the situation is tricky, since he was a minor when it happened. Same about the car thefts. We'll see what happens."

"Well," said Danny Taylor after another short break, rising from his chair, "I think that's all. I just want to add that I'm very glad our cooperation turned out to be so successful. So I'd like to extent a big thank you to you guys at the CSI."

Danny Messer rose from his chair, too. "Same to you, FBI," he replied. "And I think I'm speaking for everyone here when I say it would be a good idea to go down to Bonnie's Blues Bar and celebrate this cooperation."

"Good idea, Danny," Danny Taylor said and grinned.

"Thank you, Danny," Danny Messer replied and grinned back.

"Then let's go, shall we?" Aiden chimed in. "Samantha?"

Sam waved. "I'll join you later," she said in a low voice.

When Aiden left the conference room together with Mac and the two Dannys, she saw that Sam held Martin Fitzgerald back by his sleeve.

"Martin, would you care for a drink somewhere else?" she heard her say. "I think we should really talk things over... please."

Aiden smiled to herself. So Sam had really listened to her advice. She quietly closed the door behind her, but before the door fell shut, she could overhear Martin's reply:

"Yes, Sam. I would love to."


	10. Coda

**CODA**

_October 21, 2005. "Bonnie's Blues Bar". NYC. 01:22 am._

"Seems as if there's only the two of us left, Danny."

"Do you mind, Aiden?"

"Not at all. You know you're my favorite drinking companion."

"Am I?"

"Always been."

"I'm flattered."

"So what now?"

"How about a last beer before we go?"

"I'm in."

Several minutes later, Aiden looked up and met Danny's eyes, sharp and blue behind his glasses. When she spoke, her head felt pleasantly light.

"How many beers have I had, Danny?"

He smiled. "Do you really expect me to keep a record of your drinks?"

"Not really. I'm just trying to figure something out."

"And what might that be?" He sounded amused.

"Whether I'm drunk enough to blame the alcohol for what I'm about to do."

"That depends on what it is."

"Something I've been meaning to do for quite some time."

"Then I'd say this is the moment. And I reckon you can safely blame the alcohol. You certainly had more than the FBI people." Danny winked at her.

Aiden took a deep breath. "OK, I'll do it." She held his gaze, trying to read in his face whether he had any idea of what she was talking about. "Just remember, Danny - I'm drunk. If anything goes wrong, you know what to blame."

"That sounds frightening," Danny joked.

"Maybe it is. Maybe it's not. Depends."

Aiden downed the rest of her beer, then she got up and walked around the table until she stood at Danny's side. He turned his head and looked into her face, his expression revealing nothing apart from a little curiosity. It was impossible to read in his face, but Aiden did not even try.

Feeling light-headed and intoxicated from the beer and today's success, she memorized once more what Sam Spade had said to her earlier: _Maybe he's also worth a try._

_Blame the alcohol, Burn. But pray that you won't have to._

Pushing the last inhibitions aside, she lowered her face until their eyes were level, then she paused. "Are you frightened yet, Danny?"

He calmly held her gaze, and his smile reached his eyes when he replied: "Not at all."

She smiled back. "Then the rest will not frighten you, either."

Danny's arms that suddenly snuck around her waist, pulling her close, were as good a reply as any.

**xxxTHE ENDxxx**


End file.
